


Crown the Wolf with Bronze and Blood

by sometimesimeow



Series: Tales of Snow and Madness [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Loras, Alpha Ramsay, Alpha Robb, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Boypussy, Breastfeeding, Breasts, Breeding Kink, Come Inflation, Crossdressing, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, F/M, Feminization, Fingerfucking, H plus N equals J, Intersex, Intersex Omegas, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Male Lactation, Mild Child Grooming, Mpreg, Omega Jon, Omega Renly, Omega Theon, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Pregnancy Kink, Rape Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Riding, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Somnophilia, Vaginal Sex, dark!Robb, inappropriate use of fruit, no betas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-26 03:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 275,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7559023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimesimeow/pseuds/sometimesimeow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon was supposed to be older when he had his first heat. Instead, he was eleven years old, and his father wanted him at Winterfell with him and his half brothers and sisters. Before his mother left him at Wintefell, he gave him three warnings. One, to never be alone with Lady Stark. Two, to never forget that he is a child born of love. Three, to never lose Robb Stark’s heart, for to do so was to lose the heart of Winterfell. </p><p>Part Two of Tales of Snow and Madness</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome everyone to my second story! I highly suggest reading the first part of this story, though the main thing you need to know is Howland + Ned = Jon. Secondly, I'll start putting warnings in these notes but there's a scene in this chapter where Howland 'helps' Jon with his heat. It's treated very clinically but I'm sure there might be some people that might be disturbed.

North of the Wall, people spoke the Old Tongue. In the rest of Westeros, people used the Common Tongue. Within the Neck, whose inhabitants carried the blood of those who sing the song of earth, their language was the True Tongue, but that was a secret kept within their swamps and bogs. Jon learned the Old Tongue from his uncle, who was taught it by Jon’s mother when they were wed. He was taught the True Tongue by those who sing the song of earth, and recited nursery rhymes to his brother and sister while they were still suckling on their mother’s teat. The Common Tongue was the one he used to communicate to father, who lived in castle called Winterfell, far, far away from the Neck, and who wrote him letters every fortnight and visited him every year for the week of his nameday. In each letter, he told him how much he cherished Jon and his mother, and how we wished he could be by their side.

“He is a man of honor,” swore his mother. He explained to Jon that it was not his fault that Jon was a bastard. They were married under the Old Gods, not the New, and by southern governance, their marriage did not exist. “You are as trueborn as any of his children or mine.” Howland would then cradle his oldest son and tell him sweet stories of their union. He talked about the Tourney of Harrenhal where they first met, and their wedding night in front of the weirwood tree. He told no tales of the war, for he declared it savage and unfitting for the ears of children, and he wished that he and his sibling’s nights were filled with dreams of passion and goodness, over the hateful sound of a man’s heart being plundered by swords and war hammers.

Jon supposed, that if he was to be a bastard, there was no better place to live than the Neck—except, possibly, Dorne. There were many children of the Neck who had no fathers; their sires being weary travelers on the kingsroad or inopportune guests who had the misfortune of getting lost in these swamps. Some fall into the quicksand beneath the waters, such as the occasional Frey who wished to break the ceasefire, while others found themselves being guided by a pretty crannogman who wanted a memento to remember them by. Alphas were rare in the Neck, so people made do when they wanted a child. When Howland gave birth to not one, but two alphas, people thought Benjen’s cock was magic. They jested that Jon’s mother was selfish for not sharing.

If their people were to follow the law of the land, the Neck would have more Snows than actual familial names. But the people of the Neck had their own practices, and the Citadel’s tendency to overlook or blatantly ignore the Neck’s disregard for the rules, led to these children taking the surname of their mothers. Jon was recognized by his father; he was a Snow, not a Reed, or a Stark. His name was a brand of wickedness outside the Neck, but a mere anomaly within it. Nonetheless, he was family. The crannogmen hunted together, bathed together, and ate together when they could.

Jon especially liked their hunting lessons; he enjoyed the hours of the day where they brought out their nets and spears, and went for their weekly hunt. His mother was the lord of these lands, and led the hunt on the first day of the week. Children from the ages of eight and twelve, like Jon and his sister, were sent to the shallow areas away from the rabid quicksand and the preying lizard lions. They got to hunt small game like perches and frogs, or fumble through the dirt for clams and crayfish. Children like Jon were given spears while children Meera’s age clutched onto their blunt gigs with pride. The youngest children were not forbidden from these activities. They sat with the pregnant omegas, or the elderly, and were taught how to clean and prepare the meat for storage. From afar, Jon could see his younger brother, Jojen, settled between two swollen omegas who were teaching him how to clean a frog for consumption. Jojen was bored but quietly complied to their wishes. Unlike him or their sister, Jojen preferred the history lessons, and excelled at the more unusual education of the Neck.

“I missed,” Meera claimed dejectedly. She was too eager. She wanted to capture the fat crappie that dawdled near the rocks, not realizing the size of the creature was an indication of its vitality, not an opportunity for her. Jon watched the fish swim toward his backside and stab it right through its eye. He removed it from his spear and tossed it to the basket with the others.

The alpha girl tried again, but this time, was too desperate to prove herself. She was only eight years old, and already wanted to be a warrior. Jon laughed when she missed and though she glared, she never stopped trying. Jon went up to her. “You are scaring all the fish away,” he reprimanded. The sound of bells never far from his tongue. “Here,” he instructed when he grabbed her. “Hold your spear close to the water but not close enough that they can see a shadow…wait…Meera, I can feel your shaking…and…now!” Meera struck the crappie in its chest. She shrieked in joy and hugged her brother. Jon kissed her curls. She deposited the fish into the basket, and heard their announcer blow his horn, announcing the end of the hunt.

Their group moved out of the waters. On the way to the mud lands, Jon fumbled his step.

“Jon?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing Meera, just the heat.”

“You’ve been sick for a long time,” Meera scolded. “Mother said your sheets were doused in sweat last night and your footwork was mucked up during spear training. Father was not impressed.”

“I—”

“You need to see a healer,” Meera told him. “Leave the matters of skinning and shelling to us. Get some rest.”

So demanding, as alphas tend to be. Jon was grateful their little brother shared none of her aggressive nature. He took their basket to their mother for distribution, and ignored the protest his sister gave him. When he arrived, his mother only glanced at him and gave him a single word of thanks. He thought he was safe, until he commanded Jon return home for rest.

“But mother—”

“Your complexion is sallow. I was persuaded to let you come on the hope that you would faint before we arrived. Now, you’ve gotten worst. Let’s hope your ailment has not contaminated your comrades.”

Jon frowned and though he wanted to protest, he knew better than to defy his lord mother’s ruling. He left for his bedroom where a mess of blankets and pillows were stacked on top of each other and confined to a bundle, the traditional bed for unmated omegas. He felt a churning in his stomach and his body was on the verge of a fever. He laid on top of his sheets, and for the first time, he found them too hot, too stifling for what he wanted. An hour passed, and his holes were wet, soaking through his pants. He stripped himself of all clothing. In shame, he reached down and slipped his fingers into his cunt. Jon moaned and dug deeper. He added more fingers, and began to dive them in and out. He played with his clit, teased his pucker and pinched his own nipples. He bit his lips to cover up his moans.

After Howland was finished with his distribution, he left his men to check on the condition of his son. He entered the room, and was taken back by the smell of fresh greens rising underneath newborn snow, and the flowering of snowdrops. He went towards his child and held him as his boy whimpered.

“Mother…it burns. I want…I want something…inside me…” He moaned in the True Tongue. Afterwards, he began begging for an alpha, any alpha, and whispered in the Common Tongue that he wanted his father. He begged his mother to bring him here. Howland held him closer. Young omegas, ones unaware of the nature of their blossoming, tended to assume that their craving was for their alpha sires’ care. Howland did not bother to correct him, not in his heat of mind. Finally, the Old Tongue took over and he began whimpering, an odd clash between the purity of a child and the roughness of the First Men.  

The True Tongue sounded like the whispers of bells in the wind or the foam resting on the water. The Old Tongue reminded of Jon of bronze clanging onto shields and how crude metals molt into thrones. The language of the Andals, the Common Tongue heard through Westeros, was the one Jon disliked the most. Their meanings were subtle. Their tongues were laced with the venom called deceit. His mother told him that when they speak, those words produced the same sound as steel slicing a man in half.  

Howland whispered something in the True Tongue, and Jon’s body calmed. He worked himself up to a dead sleep when Howland finally left. He ordered a passing crannogman to get his husband.  

“My son believes he is dying. Get me some medicine, and contact my husband.”

“What should I tell him?”

“Tell him that my son has blossomed.”

The man protested the diagnosis.

“He is but a boy of eleven! At the very least, his heat should not occur until his fourteenth nameday!”

Howland told the man that he did not care for his predictions.

Benjen arrived shortly after with the medicine. They told the crannogman who brought him to get them some rations and meet him in his room. Benjen asked what was going on, and to his surprise was dragged inside Jon’s bedroom. The smell was suffocating.

“Help me carry him to a more secure location.”

Benjen obeyed the command. He lifted Jon into his arms and allowed his mother to wrap him up in cloths to stifle the scent. He was a small child, the crannogmen blood was evident in his body, but Howland was petite of frame as well and could not lift him. They carried him to Howland’s bedroom, and Benjen placed him onto the bed where his mother wrapped him in his own covers. Jon refused them when he woke again, but Howland proceeded regardless.

“It’s too hot, mother…”

“I know, but we have to sweat out the fever. Do not argue with me.” Howland remained completely calm as he tightened the furs together. Benjen asked if there was anything else he could do, but he could not. He advised Benjen to leave once provisions were secured. Jon and Howland would wait the fever out together. A crannogmen returned with three days’ supply of fresh water and chucked shellfish and grilled flounder. Howland brought out a bowl and poured the water inside. He touched it and suddenly the coolness of their rainwater turned to the relief of a hot spring. He grabbed a wooden object covered in a wax from his cabinet. He dipped it inside the water. Once it was warm, he lathered it with oils.

His son was watching between half-lidded eyes. “What…what is that?” He was awed.

“Something to make the pain go away, my love.”  He took Jon into his arms, and managed to burrow into the sheets far enough that he could touch his son’s groin with the object. He placed the tip inside his cunt. He kissed Jon on the forehead, and told him to prepare himself. Then, he slowly pushed it inside until Jon was fully impaled on its girth.

“Ah!” Jon panted. He squirmed and squeezed his thighs together. Howland dragged the object in and out and kept control of the makeshift cock’s speed. Jon begged for more. He tried to push his hips onto it and claw out for the tool, but the sheets bounded him. Howland moved faster, hitting Jon’s spot over and over again until he finally came. Sated for now, Jon curled up against his mother.

“That feels good,” Jon murmured. “Why does it hurt so much?”

“Your womb is preparing itself for a child, Jon. Soon, your hips will widen and your breasts will swell. The heat means you are able to be mated.” In their brief time before the next wave of hormones, Howland did his best to educate his son about his upcoming adulthood. He was still a child and held the words in awe. He could not acknowledge the enticement of his own body, how the sight of his own bare flesh would encourage the lusts of other men. Howland refused to let his son be covered in garb of shame. He told Jon he was special. His body’s sensuality was something for him and his partner to enjoy. He had every right to seek pleasure the way alphas do.

“Will it always hurt?”

Howland told him that it will. “But one day, you may find an alpha to share it with, and you will feel incomparable pleasure than ever before. And yours came at such opportune time, now you can celebrate with your friends…” The Neck had two coming of age ceremonies every single year for omegas and alphas who reached maturation.

Jon purred like a kitten and snuggled against his mother. “Will father be there?”

Howland tightened his grip on the sheets. Jon did not notice. “Perhaps…but your father is a very busy man. And you just had your nameday, we would not want to inconvenience him to come out of his way again, do we?”

Jon frowned. “No…I suppose not…”

Howland’s heart clenched shamefully at his son’s sorrows. He was about to make up another lie, something to soothe his son’s sorrows, when Jon flushed and began squirming in place again. Howland felt the sheets soak and grabbed the tool like a weapon. “Shh…” He whispered, as he dived inside for a second round. “Let your mother take care of it…here, I’ll let you hold it. But you must not be too eager or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Jon agreed, and his small hands latched onto the object. If not for his mother’s guiding hand, Jon would have worked himself into a frenzy. Instead, the pistoning was steady and the satisfaction was slow but eventually there. Howland wanted to drag the process on, because without an alpha’s fluids, there was no quick way to end a heat.

The next four days were tortuous. Howland never left his side. The crannogmen were patient and of service; they left meals outside their door, light dishes that would settle Jon’s stomach, and a consistent stream of fresh water for drink and for bathing. Howland cleansed Jon’s body by towel as if he were his babe again. On the day Jon’s heat subsided, Meera caught her first eel. Howland was sad to have missed it, but smiled at his sweet daughter when she asked if Jon could have it. Eight years old, and she took her role as an alpha more seriously than those three times her age.

When Jon was finished, he forgotten all about the pain but remembered the releases. He asked his father what it was like to have an alpha inside him. Howland shushed him by saying he was too young to be asking such things.

“I can be a mother now,” Jon explained, “that means I am no longer a child.”

Howland was unconvinced, and instead told him that the first heat was only the beginning. When his body was more developed, it would feel better. He should not waste his first experiences when his holes were still adjusting to pleasure objects and wooden instruments. Jon felt obliged to refute the claim, but then there was a knock on the door. Jojen and Meera were checking up on Jon, as they did every afternoon after their lessons. They were ecstatic to see that their brother was conscious and aware of their presence. They embraced him, and told him that they missed him dearly. Howland shooed them away. Jon needed to bathe, and then they would have their meals and a chance to catch up.

Meera practically dragged Jon to the communal springs. Jojen, a mere child of six, toddled after them. Jon had to remind his sister that their brother’s legs were not as long as theirs and they needed to slow down. Meera pouted, but then had the bright idea to lift her brother into her arms and skip. Howland smiled, and wondered how long it would take for one of them remembered that Jon had no clothes to change into when he was done.

While they were gone, Howland focused on taking care of the soiled sheets. He smelled the thickness of his son’s cream, and frowned at the obvious fertility. He wondered if he should set aside a ration of birth control for Jon next time they went gathering. He thought against it when he realized the implication. His son will not have any contact with alphas outside his family—not for a long time. He heard a knock on his room, and he told them he was busy.

“Even for your husband?”

“Especially for my husband.” Howland gathered up the sheets. Benjen offered to help, but took a single whiff of Jon’s luxuriance and gave Howland peace to continued. Howland readied the sheets for washing and the furs for a good scrub. Benjen asked Howland if he would like him to send Ned a raven, or if Howland preferred to do it.

Howland told him he preferred neither. “Jon is not going to Winterfell.”

“Did my brother agree to this?”

Howland said nothing.  

Benjen’s eyes narrowed. “Howland…”

“Jon is too young. I have already decided. This is not up for discussion.” Howland walked pass Benjen to take the laundry to the washing basins. Benjen followed. Howland was fast, and though Benjen’s long legs gave him an advantage, he was barely able to keep up with his spouse’s determined march. When Howland made his destination, he released the sheets into the baskets, and attempted to abandon Benjen again. He was sorely disappointed when the alpha cornered him in the hall. He pushed the crannogman against the wall and kept him trapped between his arms.  

Howland did not flinch. “Yes, my husband?”

“You made a deal with my brother.”

“And now I’m breaking it,” Howland admitted without trepidation. “Will this be all?”

Benjen refused to settle the matter. “My brother was told he would be able to raise his son when he matured.  You promised him this, Howland. Are you so cruel, you would deny a father his son and a son his father?”

“I made that oath under the belief that Jon would be older and ready to face the world outside the Neck. For goodness sakes, Benjen, he is eleven years old! He is small enough to be suckling on my teats and playing with dolls. Lady Stark will ruin him! I refused to let him be subjugated to that bitch’s distain!”

“Are you so fearful of a woman that you would deny the one request that man has ever made of you? My brother will not allow anything to happen to this child.”

“Your brother chose his duty over me countless times. Over and over again, and I have loved him in spite of that. What am I do if he does the same with Jon?”

“Jon carries his blood; he will not do anything to cause him harm,” Benjen promised. “He has the Stark look, and the Reed soul, and that is enough for my brother. Believe in the man you love, and not the lord you serve.”

Howland thought it was pretty notion, but he was reluctant to believe in anything, not after the last four days when his son clung to him, begging for a mercy he was powerless to provide. He imagined the hedonists and the deviants who would debauch his child, and there were no oaths that were worth more than a mother’s fear. He stood his ground, and made Benjen promise not to tell anybody outside of the Neck.

“This is my brother, Howland.”

“Jon is your blood, too,” he reminded. “We always believed Jon would be older. What’s wrong with waiting another year? I can prepare him better. It would be no hardships on either of our ends.”

Benjen was reluctant, but Howland continued to prod and beg. He reminded Benjen of the beasts that lurked outside the Neck. “If that is not enough, then remember that I am your wife, if only in name. I have been good to you. Jon is the brother of our children. It is them you must answer to when I receive a raven from Winterfell telling me that my son, my innocent boy, has been raped and murdered in some tavern because an alpha believed omegas to be objects.”

Benjen could do nothing against the claim. He submitted to the idea of one year, and nothing more.  He also promised retribution if Howland dare manipulate him again. Howland breathed a sigh of relief. He agreed to Benjen’s terms, and kissed his cheek.

“Come,” Howland said instead. “Let us celebrate more jovial matters. We need to add another plate to the coming of age ceremony. And I’m sure Jon will be running to us in tears soon. The older omegas will not let him leave those springs without the scars of merciless teasing.”

“You perform your duties, Lord Reed. I would like to take a bath as well,” Benjen told him. “Though, I’m sure no amount of washing would completely rid the stench of disloyalty.”

Howland frowned, and though his guilt curdled in his gut, he did not dwell on it. He would make it up to Benjen. The Stark was not the type of man who carried grudges on the people he loved. None of the Starks were. Howland took advantage of this fact too often not to anger the gods, for the Starks were faithful worshippers as well.

On the day of the celebration, all the newly bloomed children gathered in the halls of Greywater Watch to feast on fish that was broiled with garlic and onions, smoked with salt and pepper, stewed with their fellow inhabitants of the swamp. The tables were filled sautéed frog legs, breaded and glistened with oils, and there were plates of succulent crayfish tails, and shucked claims. Every few dishes or so, the children caught sight of a different breed of snake, braised or boiled, loaded with any seasoning they could find from the swamp. Music was loud with percussions and the whistling of high pitched air, but outside the walls, no one could hear a thing but the cackle of swamp birds and the hissing of lizards. They loved to spoil their children on this day.

Before the ceremony, Howland was given a bowl of peaches that grew in the heart of the tallest tree of the Neck, and could only be reached by those who sing the song of earth. Years before him, Howland’s father was tasked with collecting the fruit. There, he would meet Howland’s mother, who always made sure their hands touched when handing over the basket. This year, the one in charge of delivery was a soft spoken male name Seed. The peaches held a prophecy for each child that ate them. Some occurred almost immediately, and others could take years. When they were finished with their fruit, the child was to crack the seed and listen to a song only they could hear. They were forbidden from telling anybody what they heard until it happened. 

No one was allowed to eat until every child was finished with their song. When all the children were seated, shaking with excitement of the momentous occasion, Howland rewarded each of them with their peach. Almost immediately, the children devoured it, eager to find out what future awaited them. Parents watched with amusement as more seeds crushed. The children giggled and laughed, others were confused. There were no sad faces this year. Jon furrowed his brow when his sang. Someone on his side asked if it was good or bad, and to Howland’s surprise, he merely shrugged her off. Howland was desperately curious, but he knew that this secret might be one Jon took to the grave.

Once the last child was done, the people wolfed down the food. They traded stories about their own celebration, and for those whose prophecies have already been completed, they would complain either about their dullness or excitedly brag about their fortune.

Howland supposed a confusing kismet was better than a depressing one, but the voice in his head reminded him that Jon was destined for greatness. Howland believed the gods would give Jon what was rightfully his, and that destiny was filled with horrors readied to be defeated for rewards. Throughout the event, Howland watched Jon with a sense of forlorn. His son had bloomed, and now, the days ahead will be filled with nothing but judgements and melancholies. He looked like a Stark, and with those curls bouncing on his shoulder, Howland was reminded of Lyanna.

_“Please, save him…Howland…Please...promise me you’ll try…”_

I tried Lyanna, Howland mused, and perhaps I fulfilled my promise too well. He shook his head, and attempted to rid himself of depression. The war was the last thing he wanted to think about. Instead, he wished to focus on the party.

While Howland was absorbed with hosting, he was too busy to notice that Benjen was nowhere in sight. It was not until Lord Fenn pointed it out that Howland questioned the location of his spouse. He was by his side when the children ate their way to their futures, but left at the beginning of the feast. The disappearance unnerved Howland. The Lord of Greywater Watch asked those near him if they’ve seen him, but his people brushed his concerns off.

“Maybe he’s taking a piss,” one of them suggested. It was a likely proposal, but Howland learned to trust his instincts and he knew there was something wrong. Finally, the long haired Stark appeared at the entranceway. Howland rushed to speak to him, but another man made it to his side first.

Howland’s heart stopped.

“Father!” Jon’s announcement had every eye turning to the doors. Jon leapt from his seat, and dashed over to his sire’s side.  He reached his tiny arms out for a hug, and Lord Stark lifted him into his arms. Jon pecked him on the lips and then snuggled into the croak of his neck. In spite of the severe circumstances, Ned smiled. Omegas were encouraged to be affectionate in the Neck. If possible, even adolescents were carried by their parents. Jon was bigger than most omegas in the region, but he was still so small that it was no hardship for Ned to carry him.

Howland walked up to them. “Lord Stark,” he greeted cautiously. Some of the higher lords around him bowed but otherwise went forward with their party.

Ned tightened the grip on his son. “Lord Reed.”

Jon frowned against Ned’s skin. He picked up his head and asked what was wrong. Howland could have lied, but realized that even with his words, his son would be able to tell something was wrong. Howland walked forward to Ned and kissed him. Regardless if it was habit or the sensation of his lips on his, the long awaited desire that both of them shared for one another, Ned kissed back just as passionately.

“Nothing is wrong,” Howland said when they parted. He was breathless. Eleven years and Ned was the strongest aphrodisiac the gods could offer him. He attempted to smile at his son. Jon grinned when he thought his parents were not fighting. He tugged on his father’s shirt and demanded they sit together with his mother. When they walked back to their table, Howland walked behind them. He caught Benjen’s gaze, and the Stark turned away.

Traitor, he thought.

Ned’s men were also present. He ordered them to take a seat or mingle with the crannogmen. The budding omegas competed with the older ones for their attention, and it took less than ten minutes for one man to be dragged off into the hallways. Ned and Howland, to their credit, stayed civil throughout the festivities. Jon sat in Ned’s lap and allowed his son to feed him. He was so happy. He asked how long Ned planned to stay this time. Ned answered he was not sure, but it depended on Jon’s mother. Howland shivered. He tried to be calm throughout the party. He hosted to the best of his ability, and partook in the cleaning that carried on afterwards. Ned offered to put their son to bed in the meantime.

When all the guests departed to their crannogs, Howland escaped the halls to check on his son. Ned Stark was already waiting for him outside the door. He told him that they needed to talk, and in response, Howland suggested his room for privacy.

“You lied to me,” Ned announced once they were safely indoors. “I’ve known you for over twelve years, Howland, and not once have you ever held me in such contempt!”

“I kept a secret,” Howland defended. “I’ve kept many secrets from you, Ned. That is the way of crannogman.”

“But never a secret about me. Never a secret pertaining to our son!”

“I was trying to protect our son!”

“From what?” Ned asked. “From me? Do you believe I could ever harm him?”

“Not intentionally. But he’s not your only son, is he?” Howland laughed and the sound is cruel, even to his ears. “You have many children aside from him. You’ve bonded with that woman, maybe not out of love, but out of the knowledge that in your old age, she will be the one by your side and not me. She has given you heirs with titles and none of the shame of bedding a crannogmen.”

“I’ve never been ashamed of you, Howland. I’ve never denied our love, nor have I ever denied Jon the love of a father.”

“When you were eighteen and married me in front of the weirwood tree, before our son was born and blossomed into a beauty, that meant something. We are not children anymore. I am his mother, you are his father, and together we must act in son’s best interest. I say that his best interest is with me. You can wait, Ned Stark. Wait a year. Wait until he is ready, until I can prepare him better.” Ever since Jon laid in his womb, Howland knew how significant Jon was in the plans of the the gods, and his own retribution. He had cursed his child to a fate he did not want. Jon was meant for Wintefell, but the greatest paths often had the harshest trials and the most dangerous obstacles. If Jon was to be sentenced there, his soul would be well armored and his heart made of obsidian. Howland would be damned if he sent Jon towards the devils unprepared.

“And what happens when a year passes and he is still not ready? How much longer will you keep my blood away from me?”

“I’m sure your lady wife will warm your bed during that time.”

Ned growled. “That is not fair. Catelyn is my duty.”

 “Yes,” Howland agreed. “And your honor means everything to you. It was what led you to put your cock in that woman time and time again. It’s what made me listen to the bells of Winterfell sing every time she bore you a child. Do you not realize? How often are my dreams are haunted with the screams of babes that would never be mine. I can never hold them. They are not my children and they should be. You know they should be.” 

Ned did not deny him. “I cannot change the past, Howland. But give me a chance to do right in the future. Jon is my son.”

“Yes, he is your son every nameday and whenever you have the time to send him a letter. You put him inside me and watched as he cried in my arms while we left Winterfell for good. For you, it was over with. But for me,” Howland held back his cries. “I brought him into this world. I raised him. I nursed him when he was sick and held him when he was crying. I love him, just as I love you, and I swear, when he is ready and not a second later, he will take his place at Winterfell. But I will not send my child away to have his innocence slaughtered and his heart broken as I was!”

The declaration took out all warmth from the room. For the longest time, Ned said nothing. Howland wanted him out of his chambers, and the thought scared him, for he cannot think of a moment in time where he did not crave Ned’s presence in his arms. Finally, Ned spoke.

“You act as if I felt nothing.”

Howland looked at him.

“Do you believe that I do not rejoice at my son’s nameday, as if I am unaware that it is the only time out of the entire year I can spend my days and nights by your side? Do you believe I would not take a sword to my chest, over and over again, to avoid the pain of leaving you and Jon behind?” Ned watched Howland’s unmoving face and continued. “The night I heard about Jojen’s birth, I prayed to the gods for the chance to have you in my arms again. Then the Greyjoys announced their intentions to abandon the Iron Throne and you were given to me for a few, short months. Watching you leave those gates took more out of me than any war did.”

Howland turned away. He stood strong, and told Ned that he would never hurt him. “But I will not allow you to leave with our son. The crannogmen will have no mercy on your men if they take him from me.”

Ned’s expression was solemn. He understood Howland’s cruelty was motivated by the deepest love for his children, and there was no clemency for those who went against his rule. No one left the Neck an enemy of Lord Reed.

“Then I will stay forever.”

Both of them knew it was a promise that could not be kept, but they also knew one of them would submit. Ned kept true to his word, and sent ravens to Winterfell detailing an unforeseen hurdle in his plans. He asked Maester Luwin if he could watch over Catelyn and his children, and suggested that Lady Stark be watched over intently, for her health always failed when he visited the Neck. When Old Nan read this letter, she pursed her lips at Maester Luwin.

“He’s gotten better at his words,” the crone muttered. “You know what he’s asking, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Luwin agreed. “Lord Stark wishes for his children to be accommodating to their half-brother. He wants to make sure that they treat him without bias.”

Old Nan narrowed her eyes at the man. “You’re good at your words as well.” She reread the letter. “I can make the boys immune from that southern lady’s poison, and possibly the girls if they’re away from that blasted heretic.” She sighed. She thought about the beautiful lord who would listen to her stories more intently than the children she cared for. He was always so happy to see her, and brought her little cakes from the kitchen when he visited the nursery to see Ned’s son. When both children slept, he would tell her stories about the children of the forest, who he called by an entirely different name. One day, Old Nan had asked about her sons, those who died in the Rebellion. Howland eyes would become distant, and instead of talking about how they died, he described their behavior throughout the journey, how one was prone to telling jokes and riddles, and how the other liked to swim in the summer lakes because Winterfell was too cold. Old Nan cried and thanked him.

She hoped Lord Stark knew how lucky he was.

Father stayed the ceremony and several days after, but Jon was not happy and neither was his mother. This was the first time he’d seen his parents fight, for their time together was so short, they could not afford to waste it on disagreement. They stayed in separate rooms, which had never happened before, not even when his mother was pregnant with Meera and Jojen, and his father refused to bed him in fear of disrespecting his Uncle Benjen. Jon was forced to ask his uncle if this behavior was to go on forever. His parents were making fools of themselves.

Benjen laughed. “Your father and mother love each other. This is merely a hindrance in their love affair. Mark my words, they’ve faced far greater demons than this and still managed to be faithful in matters of their affections. Just let the flow move in its intended path and those two will find each other again.”  

“But they are miserable! Father will be back at Winterfell soon, and I don’t want him to leave believing mother does not love him! Do you not care about their happiness?”

“I am indifferent to their romance.” Benjen declared without thinking. He was currently showing tying an arrowhead to the shaft. He rustled his nephew’s hair. “I love them both dearly. Howland is my friend and your father is my brother. I know them both well enough to understand that this is merely a trial.”

Jon was unsatisfied with the answer. The next day continued in the same cold war, and neither of them were ready to resolve the matter.

The turning point was at supper. Benjen, in an act of defiance, sat on Jon’s side and demanded Meera follow his lead by taking his left. Jojen sat on Jon’s lap. The seat beside Ned was the only one available, and when Howland attempted to grab his youngest child as a shield, Jon tightened his hold on his little brother. Jojen protested softly, but eventually submitted to his elder brother’s touch. Such a sweet disposition for an alpha, but then again, Jojen was a special one.  

The meal was discomforting. Jon’s father kept glancing over at Howland, and his eyes begged for a single touch, a kiss of affection or a soft murmur of appreciation. Howland’s eyes held no sympathies but there’s was a shiver in his skin that occurred whenever Ned leaned too close or their arms accidentally brushed. They loved each other. For the life of him, Jon could not understand what had made them so upset that they could not remember this.

One of Howland’s aids, a crannogman who enjoyed lingering around the larger crannogs and learning the secrets of his peers, interrupted their meal with a letter from Winterfell. He giggled and said that it was for Lord Stark. The seal was familiar. The Warden of the North took the parchment and read its contents.

“What does Lady Stark want?” Howland was in no mood for pleasantries.

“She wishes for my return immediately,” Ned answered. Jon’s head snapped up. He could not allow that to happen, not while his parents were still fighting! He ate slowly and watched his father with hawk eyes. Lord Stark folded the paper as if it were rubbish.

“You do not wish to answer her?”

“I have already informed the maester of my mission; he will understand that my lack of response means that my original intentions have not changed. If she continues to worry, I will send my men to deliver the message.”

Howland paid an unnatural amount of attention to his soup. He did not look at his lover when he spoke. “Your wife will be angry,” Howland told him. “She will say you favor our child over hers.”

“My children with her shall have issue and inheritance and the honor of a trueborn name. They will be raised under my watchful eye and within the walls of Winterfell. Our son has but a week in the entire year, and the rare moments like these.” Ned paused. “If I leave, I will have less time to spend with you.”

Howland stood up at that moment. He was not hungry, and told his family that he would be in his rooms. With a single hesitation at the door, he informed them that he will be amendable to company this evening.

Jon beamed and watched his father’s stern expression warped into a small smile. When they finished, Jon asked if his father wanted to visit the weirwood tree before he made up with mother. He agreed, and while they walked, Ned talked about Winterfell. He spoke of the landscape, and how vast the land was that houses in the North would not meet for miles. He declared Winterfell a castle with towers as high as the tallest trees in the Neck, and there were horses, which Jon called grand beasts. His father told him that he wanted to teach him how to ride those ‘grand beasts’ and to see the other creatures like stags and wolves. He said that soldiers carried longswords like Jory and Desmond instead of spears and bronze knives. Jon asked if there were giants, and Ned laughed, but said there were people often mistaken for them. When they reached the weirwood tree, they made their prayers. Jon spoke in the True Tongue, which led his father to smile and tell him that Jon sounded like his mother when he spoke. Jon giggled and asked about his siblings. He wanted to hear stories about the babe Rickon and his biting habits, or Bran and how he was learning how to climb despite being a toddler. He wanted to hear about Arya and her ability to ride the grand beasts and the stories his sister Sansa made up with her dolls. Most of all, he wanted to hear about Robb, who he remembered vividly as the boy who kissed him in his crib and was the heir to Winterfell and was becoming a great swordsman and a great leader. Ned asked how he remembered their intimacy, and Jon smiled and said he never forgotten.

Ned did his best to divulge in the stories. The duo finally returned when night fell and Jon was resting in his arms. He took Jon to his rooms, and made his way to Howland’s quarters, where he was assaulted with fierce kisses and diligent hands desperate to undress him.

“I thought you were not coming,” Howland declared.

“I had to put our son to bed,” he told him as he took off his shirt. His pants were ready to sink off his hips. He lifted Howland up and helped his legs wrap around his waist. He carried him to his bed and dropped him there. He bit Howland’s nipples, earning a yelp. Ned’s lips traced down to his belly button and he went lower until he reached his cock. After swallowing it whole and giving him a particularly hard suck, Ned released it with a ‘pop.’ Howland moaned and spread his legs wider. Ned took out his hard cock. He rubbed his manhood against Howland’s swollen clit until he was ready to cum. When he was on the verge of tearing into his sheets, Ned entered him. Howland screamed as he came.

Ned became a beast. He only stopped pounding him into the bed to feel Howland’s cunt clench around his growing knot. When he grew to his fullest, he was only satisfied when he felt an influx of cream dousing his cock. He stuffed Howland’s mouth full with fingers. When he took them out, Howland was still sucking and a sliver of saliva connected his mouth to them. He took his cock out of Howland in order to flip him on his hands and knees. He reentered him and fucked him like a bitch. He forced his wet fingers into Howland’s eager backside. The ass swallowed him like a second mouth. Howland moaned loud enough for the whole castle to hear.

Ned came once and asked Howland if he wanted to continue. He was already growing hard again. Howland opened his mouth to say something but he could only moan. Ned was playing with his pucker and ramming his fingers into his prostate. He kept on forcing them in whenever Howland spoke.

Howland trilled and only managed to announce his submission. “Whatever you want, Ned.”

“What do you want?” Ned asked. He pistoned his fingers into Howland again and made him come on them alone. Then, he removed his hand.  Howland’s voice could only produce harsh breaths. Ned was unsatisfied and asked again with a thrust accompanying each word. “What do you want?” He asked his made, rough, slow strokes against his g-spot. When Howland didn’t answer, Ned stuck his soiled digits next to his half hard cock. Howland wrapped around the intrusion and he started buckling his hips so that his folds were rubbing against Ned.

“Ned…” He moaned pitifully. “Please…”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You!” Howland tried to control his screams. “I want you to fuck me!” All he wanted was Ned’s cum overflowing inside him. He wanted to gorge himself on Ned’s seed and he wanted to make up for the four days they were apart. “I want you to use me so badly that I—! That I forget what it’s like to not have your cock! I want to be full! I—ah!”

Ned complied, and he made up for their time apart the entire night. They would not rest until the next morning. On their last session, Ned found himself releasing on top of Howland’s back because his holes could not withstand another load. His stomach was already inflated with come and he was leaking all over his sheets. Jon was satisfied by their lack of presence at breakfast. He would not see them until afternoon, when he snuck into their room and watched his father sleeping soundly beside his mother. He tiptoed inside and saw his father’s hand subconsciously rub circles into his mother’s butt. He moaned at the sensation and snuggled closer to Jon’s father.

Jon was curious about the bit of cream on his mother’s face and when he reached out to touch it, his mother slapped his hands away. Jon jumped.

“Don’t bother people when they’re sleeping, my love,” Howland reprimanded. He opened his groggy eyes and winced at the paleness of his son’s moonlit skin. In a daze, he ruffled his messy curls. Jon giggled and crawled onto the soiled sheets. They were wet and sticky. Ned woke up then. He was surprised to see Jon there, and covered himself and Howland up. Jon wondered why. He’d seen his mother bathe many times in their community pools.

His mother waved off his father’s attempts to make their actions clandestine. He stood up from the bed, his nipples swollen from the attention. Jon could count at least a dozen love bites. “What’s the matter, Jon? Did you need something?”

“It’s afternoon,” Jon told them. “I came to ask if you would like to eat under the flowering bungalows together. You’ve reconcile, correct?”

Howland smiled sinfully. “Yes.” He pushed away a strand of Jon’s hair. “But I…we would like to talk to you about something.”

Jon furrowed his brows. Ned whispered something in his mother’s ear, and due to their short distance, he could hear the suggestion of ‘waiting for the right time.’ Howland said that Jon needed to make his decision.

Jon crawled forward to them. He wanted to be held, but his father warned him about getting too close. They were dirty. So Jon sat in his place when Howland asked if Jon remembered his fifth nameday.

Jon perked up at the memory. With the passing of his heat, Jon’s cheek appeared eternally rosy and his mouth forever opened in awe. He remembered the open fields of vast northern lands, how the skies were blue as a painting and rested on the short grass that bunnies and ground squirrels could feast on, and the dirt was dry and the roads hard. His father had taken him on a horse, and though he was too young to ride on his own, his father took him several miles out of the Neck so that he could watch his first sunset on a horizon instead of peering through the light of the trees.

“Yes, mother! Father took me riding on a grand beast through the dry lands, and watched the sun melt into the ground. He gave us dried meat of the big deer—”

“A stag,” Ned clarified.

“A stag,” he said wondrously. “You could not leave the Neck because you were ready to burst with Jojen. But father taught me how to read the stars. He told me in Winterfell, they were everywhere because there were no trees to hide them.”

“How much do you remember about Winterfell?”

Jon frowned. “Almost nothing,” he confessed. “I was too young. All I remember is my brother’s cries, and the black pools resting underneath the weirwood trees where I was born. I remember the sun piercing my eyes and the chill of fallen snow. I remember shadows of a great citadel and the dust of crypt. Is that bad?”

Ned was taken back by the memory; for Jon was just a babe when he left and he expected less than nothing. “No, that is very good Jon. Your memory is impressive.”

Pride was evident on Jon’s face.

Ned asked, “Do you wish to see it again?”

Jon looked down nervously. “If father is willing to accommodate our entire family.” 

In another conversation, Howland would have been proud of the love his son bore him. Today, he was weary of poor reactions. “Jon, I have kept a secret from you.” He reached out to gently stroke Jon’s cheek, an act of comfort that made him purr when it happened and worry when it stopped.

“What kind of secret?”

“Years ago, when your father attended your fifth nameday, he requested to take you to Winterfell to live amongst him and his other children. I refused. To take you so young would have turned my love into loathing, and he knew that. He asked me ‘when’ and I told him to wait until you blossomed. I thought you would be older. I thought we would have more time together.”

Jon choked up. “Are you sending me away, mother?”

Howland used his free hand to take Ned’s, and the one on Jon’s cheek moved to grasp his little fingers. “Lord Stark is your father, and therefore within his rights to request your presence. I believed you deserve the joys of his tutelage.”

“But I am not unloved by him!” He turned to his father. “Most crannogmen do not know their fathers. You visit me every nameday. You send me ravens bearing letters and beautiful gifts—”

“Most men do not know they are fathers of crannogmen,” Howland interrupted. “Most crannogmen are not bastards by title.”

Ned spoke before Jon could respond. “Jon, I want you at Winterfell, if not for your sake than for my own. I am selfish in making this request. You are my last link to your mother. I have never taught you how to hold a sword heavy enough to sink the crannogs. I was not there for your first words. I cannot teach you how to ride a horse on the kingsroad alone, or how to hunt beasts that roam on dry lands.”

Jon was at a lost. He did not want to make his father sad but the message terrified him. He would never hear the ringing of those who sing any longer, and would be cursed by the trappings of an unmoving fort, unable to swim in the bogs for their rivers are ice, and no longer able to hide within the wet willows. His footsteps would no longer quieted by the caw of birds and smacking of lizard lions. He would be trapped in a cage.

“May I…” He sucked a little breath. “May I have some time to think?”

Howland looked at Ned, and agreed. “Try to make your decision soon, my love. Your father has to return to Winterfell soon. You might regret not going.”

“How do you know?” Jon snapped before he could stop himself. He glared at him. You’re sending me away to a land without escape. One ruled by the woman who took father away from us, Jon thought. That woman hates me and you are sending me to her.

“Careful Jon,” Ned warned. “You will not speak to your mother in that tone.”

Jon simmered and apologized to his parent. Howland responded with grace. “I would like to hear your decision by tomorrow morning at the latest. I will not force you to go, and neither will your father.” Howland was adamant with this statement. In the midst of their reconciliation, they agreed to let Jon decide. Neither would force them, and they would stick together for the sake of Jon’s security.

Jon agreed and ran off to his rooms, his offer for a picnic rescinded. Howland leaned on Ned’s shoulder, fearful that he was too quick to appease and risked his son’s happiness for the brief chance of his own. Ned soothed his worries and thanked him for his support. He reminded him that this was what he wanted, even if the timing was less than desired. Jon would prosper in Winterfell. Ned would make sure that their son desired nothing.

“You will spoil him,” Howland teased in spite of his sorrows. “He already has more toys and jewelry than all the citizens of the Neck combined. If not for our climate, I’m sure his closets would be decked with silks and dresses.”

“I wished to spoil you but you do not let me.” His kissed Howland’s neck tenderly. He let the covers slip away once Jon was away. He nipped at every trace of unmarked flesh. Howland told him to stop, because he was not ready for more. There was still so much seed in him. Howland yelped when his cunt was intruded upon. Ned prodded Howland’s hole apart to release some of the come stuck inside. When a good amount was drain, Ned removed his hand. “There, now you can take me again.” Holland whimpered and raised his hips again.

When they arrived at dinner, Howland rested on Ned for support.  Ned reveled in the knowledge that Howland’s body was still corrupted with his seed. Jon was late. Howland asked Meera where her brother was, and she responded ‘praying.’ He arrived moments later, covered in dirt and leaves, and before his father could reprimand him, declared that he made his decision.

“What decision?” Meera asked.

“I’ve decided to go to Winterfell.”

“What?” Howland’s only daughter sounded aghast. “You’re leaving us?” She turned to her mother. “Why are you sending Jon away?” She looked at her uncle. “Why are you taking my brother?” Then, she asked her father. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Howland said that he was going to tell her later after Jon made a decision. He explained that Jon’s father wanted the chance to raise him at Wintefell, just as he was given the joy of having Jon in the Neck.

“It is only fair.”

Jojen’s precocious green eyes narrowed at his mother. It was as if to say 'since when do you care about fairness?' He left his father’s side to take a seat beside Jon. Despite the grime and filth, Jojen sunk his head into Jon’s lap and laid there. He ignored his meal in exchange for a nap on the lap of an unwashed omega whose scent was pungent and sweet.  

Ned ignored the argument for the sake of asking his son if he was sure. Jon nodded.

“But it is not without cost. I have a few stipulations before I agree to come with you.”

Howland was taken back. He looked at Ned, whose eyes never left Jon. Ned asked what those stipulations were, and if they were just conditions, he would be amendable to agreeing as well. Jon smiled at the opportunity. He was right to trust the guidance of the gods.

“First, I want the opportunity to leave whenever I want. If your lady wife or children are cruel to me, I will not stay if it means being away from a home where I am loved.”

Ned frowned, but found the term agreeable. He would hate to see his son go, but he would hate it more if his son was living without defenses against ridicule and scorn. That was the reason he agreed for Jon to be raised in the Neck, where there were fewer amenities but greater tolerance. A child with Jon’s nature would become accustomed to Catelyn’s antipathy, and would become sullen and longsuffering to avoid conflict with his father or his siblings.

“Your first term is reasonable. What else?”

Jon sighed in relief. He had made his first victory. “Secondly, I wish for my family to accompany me. Meera has always wanted to travel outside the Neck, and Jojen will become a recluse if he doesn’t. I want my mother to help me settle.” Jon bit his lips. “It won’t be for long, and if Winterfell becomes uncomfortable, we’ll be using fewer resources to travel home.”

Ned could not deny the temptation of having his lover in his own home again. He never felt right bedding Howland in the Neck, miles away from Winterfell. The act made him feel like he was treating the mother of his son as some cheap whore instead of the regal warrior and lord he was. For a short period in time, he can pretend they were family—the family Ned was meant to have.

“I agree to that as well. Is that all?”

“One more,” Jon announced. He took a deep breath. “After Jojen was born, Uncle Benjen stopped sharing a bed with mother. They saw no point in keeping up the pretense. With Meera and Jojen, House Reed now has two heirs. You have five. Uncle Benjen has been good to me, and he carries great respect for my mother and my mother to him. By not bedding each other, they do not ruin this. They are happy.” He looked at his father. “You told me that you have only loved my mother. To prove this, I want you practice celibacy during my time at Wintefell. I want you to stop disrespecting mother, the man you claim to love.”

The dining room feel silent and Ned’s face was unreadable. Jon stood his ground. Though only eleven years old, he acted as if he was already facing a lord’s burden. Howland said nothing and came to no one’s defense. Tonight he would thank the gods and make a grand sacrifice to them for blessing him with such a loving son. He made the request without being told that this was one of Howland’s greatest desires. He did not know what he expected.

Finally, Ned stood up. He walked over to the other side of the table and told Jon to start packing. He agreed to all of his terms. Jon’s face lit up with an unimaginably bright smile and kissed his father. Howland let out a breath of relief. His body was light after a great pain in his heart was removed.

“Thank you,” Jon said as he ran out of the dining room without food in his belly. Howland mused that they will have a creeper in the kitchen soon. Before Howland left for the weirwood tree, Ned saw a sliver of come drip down his thighs and fucked him within the hallways. He told him that he would have him on every stone of Winterfell while he was there. Howland asked if Lady Stark would be so eager for his presence in his bed, knowing that he was leaving hers permanently.

“I would have left her bed empty after Robb, had you told me so.”

Howland grimaced. He wrapped his arms around Ned and thought that he should not have to tell him anything. When they were finished, Howland instructed Ned to rest for tomorrow. They will leave after every one secured their belongings. Jon had a mountain of gifts to pack because the boy treasured everything Ned has ever bought for him. Ned said there were plenty of gifts at Winterfell. Howland laughed and said he was right. He would spoil his son.

Howland led Ned to his rooms before he was touched again. He abandoned his lover after a long coupling in their sheets. Howland entered the realm of the gods when he touched the weirwood tree and chanted a prayer asking for protection for his son. Then, he promised a great sacrifice in exchange for power. Those that sing the song of earth whispered secrets into his ear and said that winter was coming, and the North would break free from the chains of summer that kept them weak.

Howland watched the ravens morph together to make a shadow in the sky. The woods became dark. He asked what his son’s destiny was, what message did the fruit give him? He heard laughter.

“Howland,” they giggled. “Howland, you know such things are sacred.”

“We told no one of your fate, not even your mother when she died.”

“She wanted you to be happy.”

“I care about my children. If you cannot tell me their fates, then tell me of the gods’ desire.” Howland asked. “Tell me what they want.”

Howland heard laughter. Then, he heard silence for deliberation. The shadow of ravens rested on Howland’s shoulder and cawed his answer. “The gods are fond of you Howland Reed, just as they are fond of your children. They wish for the land to be theirs again, where the wolves roam with giants and see the bears play with roses, where dishonest men are stripped of their treacherous shrouds and have their mouths cleansed with soot.” The laughed. “Your blood is blessed, and the Stark doubly so.”

Howland thought about his beautiful boy and how his curls resemble Lyanna when she rode horses, and how he enjoyed resting in the corners after too much time in the crowds like Benjen, and he was reminded of his face, that perfect face he fell in love with at first sight, at the tourney where he asked the gods for that one man to be his forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning, please be very worried about Jon when he is alone in a room with Robb. Some of the stuff in this chapter are trigger worthy, and they are both underage (11 and 12 to be precise). I suggest you read the tags. :)

Lady Stark was forbidden from being alone with her children.

The decree was unofficial in its legitimacy, but Catelyn would be a fool not to notice the way the servants were always within arm’s reach of her, how they stalked her every move, be it the brushing of her daughter’s hair, or her discussion on her son’s studies. She tried her best to stifle her humiliation when she saw how fast they readied her lukewarm tea and how stale the honey cakes were when they were brought. Maester Luwin was subtle in his transgressions. There were always lessons for the children of Winterfell, and he always had a book in hand or an object of fascination to distract her children.

Old Nan was not. She was there for every breastfeeding, for every memory Catelyn wanted to recount to her toddler and babe, and there was a time she bothered to lie to Septa Mordane, saying she was curious about her faith so that she could intrude on her daughters’ lessons. Neither of them bought it, but neither of them had the will to spar with the stubborn crone.

The younger servants watched the interruptions with indignation on Lady Stark’s behalf. The ones employed at Winterfell for less than a decade saw no reason behind the unjust behavior—they saw only the dishonoring of their kind and wise lady. It was the older servants, the loyalists of the North and the adamant believers of the Old Gods, whom hid in the shadows at Lady Stark’s expense.  They remembered what the young ones did not. They remember the madness that befell Winterfell when Catelyn was just a green girl. They will never forgive her weakness; the splat of her body when she hit the ground, nor will they forget the treacherous claims against Lord Stark’s son, the precious babe who knew no sin but the blood of passion in which he was born.

Lady Stark kept silent. She would not give them another reason to act against her. She was wronged in the worst ways, and though she knew her past transgression may have warranted such concerns, she refused to see their actions as anything less than treason against her being. They were cruel, to judge her for the sin of being human. It was easy for them to pass their sentences when their lovers carried no bastards. They would not have to raise the child in their home. They were not demanded to love someone who only served to remind them of their husband’s betrayal. Was it not enough that she loved her children with all her heart? Why must she care for a stranger when no one else was obliged to nurse their neighbor’s kin?

On the afternoon she received the raven signifying her husband’s return, a child and his family in tow, Catelyn left for the sept to ask for guidance. She turned to her septa, her companion since she was a girl, and beseeched her wisdom for such matters.

“My husband thinks so little of me that he employs spies at my beck and call,” Catelyn revealed. “Does he believe me to be so vindictive that I would suffocate his son in his sleep? Does he think I am a woman who could plot the death of children?”

“He worries not for his son’s life, but for the purity of his children.”

“He believes I will teach them ill will.”

“Are his fears unfounded?” Septa Mordane inquired, a knowing presence within her question. Catelyn looked away, ashamed. “Lady Stark?”

“You’ve known me since I was child, you can address me however you please.”

The septa sighed. “Cat, you know why your husband places guardians around your children. He wants them to be raised as brothers and sisters. He wishes for his son to be loved. And despite the immoral nature of his son’s birth, you cannot fault him for loving the boy. It is a trait that the Mother would smile upon.”

“Yes, I understand he loves his son. If only he loved our children as much,” Catleyn bemoaned. She got on her knees to pray, in hopes that the burn will distract her from her bitterness. “Lord Stark has smiled more from the mention of the witch’s name than he has our entire marriage. When Robb disarmed his first opponent in practice, Lord Stark praised him and then bought his bastard his first sword. Sansa begs for another doll for her collection, and he refuses her on fear of spoiling her but has no qualms finding merchants that will travel to the Neck. Arya sneaks to the stable to ride horses, and instead of punishing her, he makes plans to take the boy horse backing riding on his nameday.  All my children’s achievements pale in comparison to his precious son, the bastard bred of _love_ , not duty.” 

“Your children have issue. Robb will be the Lord of Winterfell,” Septa Mordane soothed. “Lord Stark would not take that away from him, especially not for an illegitimate omega son, a frog eater no less. Even the North do not look upon them with kind eyes.”

“What does it matter if my children have a name?” Catelyn asked. “He could always legitimize the boy, and King Robert will allow it. Give him lands or marry him off to some high lord. He’ll provide a dowry worthy of a prince to ensure the best possible match, and it is my children, my beautiful Sansa and my sweet Bran, who will live in the shame knowing that they are worth less than a bastard.” 

Septa Mordane tried to dismiss those thoughts, but her excuses fell on deaf ears. The love Lord Stark bore his other family was renowned. She told the woman to pray instead. The Mother will reward her fidelity to her husband and the Crone shall provide her protection against the witch’s influence. When Catelyn was finished, she felt no less relieved but satisfied that her complaints were heard without judgement. She ventured to the courtyard where Robb was practicing with the squires and the Greyjoy boy. She wished to speak with him, and made note of Mikken’s apprentice and lover, a stern faced omega who glanced at her while he used a wet stone. Ser Rodrick caught sight of her and ended the lesson. He directed Robb’s attention to his mother, and took away his sword. When Robb offered to clean up, Ser Rodrick told him ‘next time’ because there were other pressing issues at hand.

Robb was disappointed but obeyed nonetheless. Since his father left for the Neck, he had been restless. He could not stand still for a second; he wanted to fight, be it a sword in his hand or a body ready to wrestle. Maester Luwin suggested that Robb was showing signs of rutting, but the theory was easily dismissed. He only just turned twelve, and there were no omegas on the verge of heat to encourage such maturity. Catelyn kept an attentive hand on his shoulder as they walked back into the castle. She brushed her hand against his hair and noticed that she no longer had to reach so low to touch it. Her son had gotten so tall. He was already at her chin. When he fully matured, he would tower over her.

“I heard ravens came from the Neck today. Have we gotten a date to when father would be back?” Robb asked. He tried not to sound anxious. Catleyn hated the attitude of the North. They all wished for their blood to become water. Children should not be so contained. She could not understand how they could encourage their people to not feel less they become weak during the winter.  

She bet _that child_ was allowed to cry and whimper when he wished. Not Robb, though, heaven forbid his trueborn son have the disadvantage of a heart.

“He is leaving today,” she answered, a grimace unable to leave her lips. “I’ll imagine we’ll see him and his child within the week.”

Robb brightened up at the mention of his half-brother. “His name is Jon,” Robb reminded. There was reverence in his voice and it made Catelyn shiver. She tightened her grip on her shawl. Robb continued, “Old Nan said that when he was born, he was no bigger than a newborn kitten. We were able to fit in the same crib because he was so small, and I clung onto him as if he were a doll. She said I was a good older brother, because I protected him.” Robb paused. “You will be kind to him, won’t you, mother?”

Catelyn does not respond the way Robb would like. She asked, instead, why he cared.

“Because he’s mine. He’s my younger brother and I won’t allow you to make him feel unwelcome here. Father expects me to take care of him.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because he told me so,” Robb revealed. He tried not to sound too petulant, or act like some loose tongued brat. “He said that Jon has wanted to see me again since he could speak. That I am his older brother, and I should protect him from harm, and in return, he will be mine. He loves me, and I won’t forgive you if you make him sad.”

“He has not seen you since you two were babes. How can he claim to love you?”

“Because we are brothers, we are bonded by blood and fate. Lord Reed says he dreams of me at night, and I him. He even told me that his first word was Robb!”

Catelyn stood still. “When did he tell you this?” How could they have been communicating without her knowledge?

“When Lord Reed writes to father, he sometimes asks about my wellbeing. He said he heard wonderful things about me. He is very kind,” Robb hesitated. He did not dare give too many compliments to his father’s lover, less he insulted his mother. “On occasion, he asks for Jon’s input. He is as sweet as strawberries, mother.”

Catelyn clenched her fist. She leaned on top of him and though she wanted nothing more than to whisper malicious tales of the baseborn breed, she instead kissed her son’s forehead. “You are such a good boy, Robb. All your siblings are lucky to have you as a big brother.” Even the ones who do not deserve it. 

Robb beamed at the compliment. The smile lifted Catelyn’s spirits. She ordered him to take a bath and get ready for supper. She wanted to hear all about his progress with the sword. When she watched him leave, her skin began to crawl. Children’s laughter swarmed her ear and when she turned to seek out the sound, she found an empty corridor. She must have been hearing things.

Ned Stark swore that if the only sound he heard for the rest of his life was his son’s laughter, he could die a happy man. Jon was chasing his younger sister on the open fields where the grass was hemmed by deer and rabbits. He cooed at the flowers he picked up and watched in amazement by their ability to fit in his little brother’s hand.  Howland told them that they needed to wash up, and when they refused, he chased after them.

Benjen took a seat next to his older brother. He followed his Ned’s gaze and chuckled. Ned asked him why he was laughing.

“Nothing.” Benjen shook his head. “Watching you is a reminder of how lost fatherhood is on me.”

“Meera and Jojen are good children.”

“Howland raised them well. I spend more time at the wall than the men themselves—even rode out North with the Lord Commander a number of times, while Howland was manning a land that moves and children whose nightmares came true.”

Ned turned back to the glorious sight ahead of him. Howland’s skin, a combination of moon and milk, was sweating. The droplets dripped down his neck and slipped underneath his shirt where Ned envisioned it was traveling into his backside. Howland captured his eldest son and tackled him into the ground. Meera and Jon shrieked with joy.

“You’ve been good to him. You have been better to Jon than I could ever wish for. You are the father of my niece and nephew whom I love. I am grateful.” Ned sighed. “I wish I could thank you more for your sacrifice.”

“The Wall will always be there. It will not be long before Meera and Jojen come of age, and they have expressed their approval of my departure.”

“That was not what I was talking about.”

Benjen chuckled. He glanced at Ned Stark’s men, all of them travel weary and wistful for their families and homes. They laughed amongst themselves, some brave enough to look over and then turn their backs in meekness. He did not mind their cuckoldry comments, and bared no humiliation at the suggestion that he could not please his own wife so his brother had to take the mantle. The Starks were loyal to their kind.

“When we announced our engagement, I wanted you to stop me. I wanted you to fight for him,” Benjen confessed.

“I could not. Howland had a duty as I did. We were both lords to our land. From the days of the Marsh Kings and the Kings of Winter, our families have always ruled. He is beloved, as was his father before him, and their ancestors before them. You were supposed to be his good brother when I was the second son, but then Lord Tully made me keep Brandon’s promise, and our plans were casted away for maps of war. You were to take The Black after Robb was born. Yet, you loved me enough to prevent my child from withstanding the callousness of my southern wife. Thank you for marrying him.”

“I married my friend, and the mother of my nephew. You are my brother, Ned. It is my duty to protect you as much as it your duty to protect me.”

Ned was satisfied by the declaration. Howland walked towards them with his children following along like ducks in the water. He smiled playfully. “I wish to wash myself and my children. Would either of you like to join me?”

Ned got up and offered to show him to the springs. Benjen refused the opportunity. He almost laughed when one of Ned’s men tried to follow them. The man, who was called Ponther, claimed that it was his duty to watch over Lord Stark. Howland laughed and said that he was in good hands. When he was hesitant, Howland assuaged his fears by kissing the high lord languidly. Ned, who was not the type of man to bask in public displays of affection, did nothing but endure Howland’s diligent hands in unbuttoning his shirt. Howland parted from the kiss and asked if all the men were so eager to watch them.

“I do admire a man who is hard…working of course. I would hate for harm to befall my love. All of them.” Howland gave his beloved children a fond smile. He turned back to the men at hand. “How attentive must you be to ensure the best possible protection?” Howland took a step further. The men backed away. “Should you check my body for weapons? In case I intend to do great wrong against him?” He loosened his shirt. Ponther gulped. He could feel Lord Stark’s glare burning into his skin as Howland unveiled his smooth chest and pink nipples. He heard Benjen Stark let out a bark of laughter.

“I…”

“Perhaps I should strip now for inspection?”

Howland started to slip off his garment when Cassel unceremoniously smacked his fellow guardsman on the head. He turned to Lord Reed, and made every attempt not to meet his eyes or his chest. When that was impossible, he focused on Lord Stark instead. “Forgive us, my lord. We do not fear your loyalty but we are not in the Neck anymore, and on the open lands, there is nothing but thieves and cutthroats.”

It was an understandable premise, but Lord Stark turned to his lover and turned back to announce that their services are better off guarding their supplies from thieves and cutthroats. Out of duty, Jory was reluctant to comply to such orders, but was simultaneously relieved. He did not trust himself not to look at Lord Reed’s sumptuous body. He asked that Lord Stark not go too far. When they left to bathe, Benjen’s chuckle became full blown amusement.

Jory shook his head. He felt like an old man when he just entered his prime. He knew Lord Stark could handle himself, but he took his job as the newly appointed captain of Ned's guardsmen seriously. He and his men walked towards the other Stark lord.

“I don’t know how you could do it,” Ponther moaned as he slumped down against the tree Benjen's form leaned upon. “I would never leave my bed if I had that creature in it!”

Benjen drank some water. “Howland knows men in a way men do not know themselves. I’ve seen him tempt a man to swim in quicksand and another to lick the poison off his arrow. In the Neck he is called a _skógr þegn_.”

“What is that?”

“It is an Old Tongue word. They are the ones the gods choose to bless with their knowledge, and when they are generous, their power.”

Desmond, another guard, scoffed. “My family are faithful worshippers of the Old Gods and we’ve never heard of such beings.”

Benjen never said they were human. He kept silent, for he had already said too much in jest.

“I heard that the crannogmen have mated with the children of the forest. That is why they are so small and inhuman,” said Alyn, a handsome young man who was entranced by southern myths. “It would explain Lord Howland’s beauty.”

Desmond burst out laughing. “Everyone knows that’s nothing but lies made up by midwives and crones to tell children! There’s nothing of substance in the Neck. Even the lords lack proper meals. They have no goods to share or gold for purchase. When there’s no food, they grow frail and nimble as all men do.”

“But they are ethereal beings, are they not?” Benjen suggested, hoping to stir up the pot more than necessary. The banter was amusing at least. Without his brother and spouse by his side, it was the only entertainment he had. “You all had your fill of them if I remember correctly.”

The men became red in harmony, their faces bleeding embarrassment and shame. “They are a lascivious sort,” Jory said diplomatically while Ponther claimed he’d seen whores with more shame. Jory honored his role as captain and hit his companion again. “Those are Lord Reed’s men,” he hissed. He turned to Benjen with an apologetic look. “Lord Benjen, we apologize for our disrespect.”

Benjen told them he was far from insulted. He pushed the matter again. “I admire you all. I’ve never met a man who did not find my wife…otherworldly.”

The looks on their faces said that such a claim was far from the truth. Alyn, the youngest and the most foolish of the four, was the first to protest. “That is exactly what he is! I would not call him beautiful, if I were to think again on the subject. He is, as you say, otherworldly…unnatural. In a room, he would be the first one to catch my eye.”

“I wish you would think at all,” muttered Jory. “Perhaps we should move on to a different subject.”

“Yes,” Benjen agreed. “Tell me, how many bastards have each of you fathered by now? An estimate is a good start.”

Howland rose out of the water as sudden as a kraken and as beautiful as a mermaid. He captured his youngest son in his arms as the other children paddled to get away. They all screamed with joy. Despite their intention to bathe, the children were swimming in the deep streams as if it were a lake. It had been two years since they’ve been in water clean enough to see their hands. The last time was on Meera’s sixth nameday, when she begged her mother for the chance to enjoy open water free from predators. He had sneaked her and her friends to a riverlands lake, at night so that they were free from unwanted guests and played underneath a garden of stars blooming for their enjoyment.

Following a proper wash, they all played water tag—even Jojen, who was normally so sullen and lethargic, was floating with his brothers and sisters. From afar, Ned watched with a fond expression. Howland choose to forgo his clothes, and though the water covered his nether regions, he made no attempt to hide his chest. His breasts had deflated after childbirth but they were still as high as they were in his youth, and would never be rid of their slight swell. Once dampened, his hair became as dark as raw honey. He swam with his children for a while longer, before allowing them time to themselves to return shore. Ned was quick to provide his cloak for Howland, lest one of his men decided to make an appearance. Howland kissed him upon returning. He tried to loosen Ned’s shirt.

Ned stopped him.

“You do not wish to bathe with me?”

“I doubt we will get much bathing done.”

“That was the intention when I invited you,” Howland teased. “I want to relive that day on the Iron Islands. When I was swimming in those harsh waves and you came in to keep me steady.” He played with the outline in Ned’s pants. “Your sword was most helpful in keeping me firm.”

Ned grasped his hands. “The children…”

“…are aware of how they were conceived.” Howland lifted up their joined hands and playfully bit Ned’s knuckles. “We do not shame carnal desires in the Neck, not when there are so little pleasures to be had. We have no gold to give. False notions purity matter not when there are no bounties.”

“I thought you cared for their innocence?”

 “I do. It is why I teach them to worship their bodies. To seek out pleasure when it makes them happy, so that if liars and hypocrites come, they cannot make them curdle in shame for their natural desires. I will not allow some alpha to take advantage of them, and use shame to keep them silent and complacent.” He let go of Ned’s hands and pressed his body against the high lord so that Ned could feel his wetness against his leg. Howland slowly began to rub himself against Ned’s thigh.

“Howland…”

 Howland closed his eyes at the sound of Ned’s growl. He hummed pleasantly. He could feel his cunt drip. “If I begged for your cock right now, does it make me less of a lord in your eyes?”

Ned denied the notion. He does, however, protest such exhibitionism. “Your children can see us.”

“If you like,” Howland purred, “You can tell them I was tired and the only place to rest was on your cock.”

“That is not funny.”

“Just the tip,” Howland bargained as gently led Ned to the ground. The alpha raised an eyebrow, because he knows that anyone who has ever made the claim ‘just the tip’ never intended to use only the tip. For Howland, this was especially true. Ned sat down and Howland straddled his lap. He let the cock enter his fluttering lips. He moaned. “We can take a nice, long wash after and come back to camp properly sated.” 

From afar, Jon was happily paddling around. Even Meera, who had all the energy of a young alpha, could not keep up her older brother’s antics. She asked why Jon was so enthusiastic.

“We are going to Winterfell, Meera. It’s exciting.”

Meera was confused by the sudden change in attitude. “I thought you were upset.”

“Because I thought I was going to have to stay there! If I don’t like it, I can always come back home!”

“Yes,” Jojen agreed, his voice was high pitch and light, “But won’t your father will be sad if you do not stay?”

“I think he will be more sad if I am unhappy. He told me it was for best, and how could it be for the best if I am miserable? Surely, it will be a wonderful experience. Father said my other brothers and sisters are eager to meet me! He has given me my aunt’s room, and he promised me all her dresses and toys!”

“You are easily swayed by pretty things,” Meera said worriedly. She swam closer to both her brothers. “I hear people here are repulsed by the flesh. They hate being touched and only have sex to make babies. Parents don’t carry their children, not even if they are small enough to be carried!”

Jon dismissed such horrid notions. “That’s impossible. Father carries me all the time, and he beds mother for pleasure.”

“But that’s why you’re a…” She wanted to sound wise beyond her years but the word was lost on her. “Bah…Baa…

“Bastard.”

“Yes, bastard! Outside the Neck, I heard any child made without love is given their alpha’s last name. But if they’re not, they have to take another name.”

“That’s why I’m a ‘Snow,’” Jon chirped. He admitted he found the tradition strange, but if he had his own sons and daughters, he would have Snow Children. He could call his babes Snow Cubs or Snow Bunnies!

“Why are they only called Snow? Doesn’t the Common Tongue have more words? Like Ice or Hail?” Jojen asked his older brother.

“Mother said that people don’t like bastards so they try to keep track of them.”

“But that makes it more confusing. If one lord has a Snow and another has a Snow, how can they tell which snowflake is theirs when it is time to divide rations?”

“They don’t divide rations.”

Jojen stared.

“The Andals are stupid,” Jon admitted, rather disappointed by their lack of consideration. “They think it is okay to abandon their children or let other people say bad things about them. Lonnel Fenn said that if you have a bastard, you can make them a slave or send them away to fight.”

“How will they be held? Who will kiss them and make sure they are happy?”

“No one,” Meera revealed. “Bastards are left alone here.”

“That’s not good!” Jojen declared. He turned to his sister. “Meera, we cannot let Jon live with such horrible people!”

“I will be fine,” said Jon, who was confident of his father’s devotion. “My father is the greatest lord in the world. He promised to protect me.”

Jojen and Meera were unconvinced. She started floating on her back, letting her lily skin get touched by the arms of the sun. “Are you sure you want to go, Jon? These people are…strange. What if they find you frail? Those outside the Neck…they are so big. And they don’t fight like us, they are so direct, so loud. They die for the silliest reasons—their armor is too heavy so they can no longer run. Their sword is so slow; a giant could dodge it. They call us cowards because we do not want to die for unjust men and foolishness. How can you become a _skjaldmær_ if everyone hates you?"

"I heard they worship humans and call them gods," Jojen state venomously. 

“It does not matter. I have to go.” Jon looked back and forth. Then, he stared deep into Meera and Jojen’s eyes and held a firm gaze. “I really, really have to.” He took a deep breath. “It’s my…destiny.”

For a moment, neither of them knew what he was talking about. Then, Jojen uttered a little ‘oh’ and whispered something in his sister’s ear. Meera squealed in surprise. “Jon! You’re not supposed to—!” Jon immediately lunged on her to shut her up. Howland got up from where he was sitting, a trail of cum leaking on his legs to call out to his children. He asked if they were alright. Jon yelled back that they were fine. They were just getting out of the water. He practically dragged his little sister to the camps, mouth held captive by Jon’s hand. Howland gave them his dagger before they left. “Be careful walking back.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “We know how to travel without being seen.”

Howland swatted him on the butt for his insolence. His children giggled as they scampered back to their resting spot. Meera seemed eager to speak again. Howland took Ned by the hand and said they needed to wash up. Ned spared a concerned glance towards Jon’s silhouette. “Should we…?”

“No, we need to wash. There is no one here.” He led Ned to a shallow area. “I made sure of it.”

Though far from persuaded, Ned complied with Howland’s wishes. He put his sanitation in Howland’s hands. Howland cleaned Ned’s cock with his mouth and gave his balls a thorough job. Ned offered to attend to Howland, but was stopped when Howland reminded him that they needed to bathe. “I’m a lot messier than you.”

Howland grabbed a towel and wiped off Ned’s dirt and sweat. Ned asked if Howland could ever forgive him for taking away his child. Howland paused but resumed his activity once the moment of contemplation passed. “No mother is ever ready to let go of their children. But I accept it because I know it is fate. I’ve had Jon for eleven wondrous years. You will be lucky to receive half of that.” He clutched Ned’s face and asked that he take care of him. “Treasure him, Ned. For he is result of our love, and without him, we would be a distant memory.” Then, he kissed Ned. When they parted, Howland resumed washing the lord. When he was finished, Ned took his cloth to return the favor.

“I will never be at ease seeing you drenched.”  

“You saved me from drowning once, do you doubt your ability to do so again?” Howland joked. Ned’s face exclaimed that it was beside the point. Howland contained his smile to prevent sparking Ned’s annoyance. “I have never felt safer than I have by your side, whether it be amidst a battlefield or sitting beside a weirwood tree.”

The words soothed Ned, and as he drifted towards Howland’s lower back, he told Howland that he hoped Jon felt the same way. Howland said nothing on the subject. Instead, he asked if Ned thought about Catelyn when they were together.

“Never,” Ned answered. He brushed the cloth against Howland’s thigh. “I do think about my children.”

“What do you think about?”

“I think about how they would look with green eyes instead of blue.”

“Do they all have blue eyes?” He asked as if he did not know the answer.

“No,” Ned answered. “Arya’s eyes are gray, like Jon’s.” Like Lyanna, they both thought.

Howland leaned back against Ned’s chest. “I hope they get along,” he said. “I hope they love each other.” Ned made the same prayer. They continued their bath and saved further clandestine acts for the privacy of their tent. Ned thought about his bed in Winterfell, and knew that the location was not the only reason it was so much colder than the one he shared with Howland.

The further they got from the Neck, the more touch starved the Reeds became. Whenever there was a bush large enough to conceal them or a tree thick enough to hide, Howland dragged Ned away for a green crown. The northern guardsmen eventually grew weary of finding the two in compromising positions that they simply requested the two not stray too far. Jory considered the measure of ‘too far’ to be the point where Howland’s screams were no longer heard.

The children were suffering as well. Meera refused to leave her father’s side for anyone but her mother, and Jojen was almost a permanent fixture in his mother’s arms when he was not copulating. They constantly needed to be held. When Benjen had his arms full with either Meera or Jojen, the other would seek attention elsewhere—at several points, even cuddling with the guards. Though they found their behavior strange, none of them had any problems until Jon started demanding to be held. While two young alphas were one thing, a fertile, recently bloomed omega was an entirely different matter.

Ned was not surprised that their tents were combined, and they all slept together. Benjen preferred looking at the stars, but Meera, who resembled her father in more than just looks, asked that his bedside include her. Ned asked Howland if this was going to be issue at Winterfell. Howland denied it, saying that as long as Jon was frequently given attention, he would be fine. He had his own room in the Neck.

“Though, having him bed close to someone he trusts would alleviate his stresses,” Howland suggested. “I heard you are giving him Lyanna’s bedroom. Who will be his neighbors?” Ned had been planning for Jon’s arrival since he was a child. Howland imagined that the room would be nothing short of luxurious—especially considering how frugal the North tended to be. Any child, lord or otherwise, with as much goods as Jon would be considered spoiled.

“He will be alone. Lyanna was the only omega, and so she had her own private quarters in Winterfell. With my children, Catelyn wanted them close so we sent them live on another floor…you look unhappy.”

Howland sighed. He wrapped his arms around Ned’s waist and rested his head on his chest. He looked up to Ned through his golden eyelashes. “We crannogmen are not meant to be alone. We hunt in groups. We fight in groups. With Jon being so far away from home…are there no other vacancies near him? Perhaps one of his siblings would want to stay close to welcome him, if only for a little while.”

Ned should refuse. The repercussions of such an action was something he wanted to avoid, especially if one considered the message he was sending to his people. Yet, Howland looked so concerned. He went on to suggest Arya, because he knew from Ned’s letters that she desired to be a warrior. “He helps Meera with her footwork, and already knows how to use his size to his advantage. Arya would like him.”

“Yes,” Ned agreed. “But she has already settled into her new room after Sansa requested to move, and I do not want her to have to accommodate once more for another sibling.”  

“Then perhaps someone who might welcome change. In the letters you’ve written me, you made it sound as if Robb was quite eager to meet Jon. Do you thinking he would be willing to take responsibility of his younger brother?”

Ned thought about it, and concluded that the suggestion was not outside the realm of possibility. Robb had been inquiring about Jon since he was aware of his existence. “He has many duties already. I would have to talk to him.”

“Please do,” Howland asked. “Our son is not so delicate that he would fall to pieces without the slightest touch, but he is a child who is prone to sullenness. He needs someone to support him or he’ll lock himself away.” Howland kissed Ned’s shoulder. “Don’t you want to ride horses with a son whose laughter can be heard through the fields?”

The explanation encouraged Ned, who favored his second son more than he cared to admit. He was sure Robb would be obliging, and the move would not be a hardship on either of their parts. On the side, Jon made a little groan. He curled up further into his father’s arms.

On the last day of their journey, Jon swore never to leave his father’s arms. He was tired, and wanton for a bed and blankets and pillows, and wished to rest for days. He clung to his father the way Jojen attached himself to their mother and how Meera refused to unclasped her arms around her father’s neck. They had to walk their way through the gates while the rest of the men rode inside.

When they came in, Jon managed enough strength to open his eyes. He gasped and always fell from his father’s arms. It was so big! He thought, his mind clouded with awe and intrigued. There must have been over a thousand rooms, and there were walls made of stones bigger than his own body! He saw towers that reached to the sky, and a land without any water or roaming beasts to watch out for. Except for the grand beasts who could around so freely. People had their own stands to display their trade; Jon had never seen a blacksmith before. He had never seen so many swords and steel. The people were large—even the elderly whose backs have bent over time. One of the old ones, who was hitting a sword with a rock, turned to look at him. Jon squeaked and buried his face into his father’s neck.

“Mikken! You’re scaring the poor boy!” Another man stated, hitting him on the shoulder. The man growled that he had not mean to. Jon blushed and shut his eyes. Unwillingly, he was making himself more tired. Both the men bowed and welcomed both Lord Starks, and Lord Reed. More and more people entered the Great Keep’s yards to see Jon. They overwhelmed him.

“It is warmer than I remembered,” Howland mused. He turned to Benjen. “We should take our children to the hot springs while we are here.”

“Aye, they would enjoy it. They might like the glass gardens as well.”

“And I want to show them the crypts. They should meet their aunt Lyanna.”

“And their uncle Brandon,” reminded Benjen. “As well as my father and mother.”

“Yes, yes. Them too.” Howland brushed their names off like dust in the wind. Benjen tried not to roll his eyes at the nonchalance. Howland never forgave the eldest Stark for dying, or the former Lord Stark for his southern schemes. They walked further inside and were greeted by men and women of age or older than Ned and Howland. They cooed at the children, and made comments about their size.

Gage, the head cook of Winterfell, took a break from his duties to fret over the children. He said they looked malnourished. He would gladly fatten them all up, and asked Meera, the only one who resembled consciousness, if she liked strawberry tarts. Howland took his insults as words of love. “She’s never had them, Gage.”

“Are they yummy?” Meera asked shyly.

Gage laughed and said his desserts were the best in the North. She would love them. Meera grinned and jumped out of her arms to poke her little brother. “Did you hear that? We’ll be given the best desserts in the North!” Jojen was drowsy, and only spared her a look before going back to sleep in his mother’s arms. She pouted and despite her own fatigue, ran to her other brother. Jon was almost knocked out, and despite the furs Uncle Ned brought for them, he was shivering. Meera asked her uncle to lower him down.

Ned got on one knee so that Meera could whisper in his ear. “I’m not ready to let you go without a fight. So while you’re sleeping, I’m going to make a bunch of plans for us and we can explore Winterfell and see if it is wonderful as they claim it to be.”

Ned smiled. He let his brother scoop her up so that they could take them all to bed. Meera said she wasn’t tired, but could not stifle her yawn. Against her wishes, Benjen took her to the guest quarters with Howland following along. He kissed his son goodnight, and told Ned that they would be awake at dinnertime.

Ned walked further and was greeted by his own creepers. He told them to come out. “Arya, Bran, I can see both of you. Tell your brothers and sisters to come out.”

The guilty parties came out of their hidings places, one with a sheepish grin, and the other one simply amazed by the size of his older brother. Robb had to drag Sansa out, as she was only there for curiosity and was reluctant to meet her half-brother. She was only a little older than Meera, and already aware of the term bastard. Rickon was no where in sight. Ned sighed. He must be with his mother.

“He is as small as I am!” Arya wondered. She reached out to touch him, but Ned kept his son out of her grasp.

“He’s sleeping Arya,” Ned warned. Truth be told, he was reluctant to let go of his son and leave him in the hands of others. Since he walked through the gates of Winterfell, nearly everyone has commented on his son’s size. It was expected that Jon was small; he was an omega and a crannogmen. But small meant many things in the harsh North, and it made Ned worry that ‘small’ was synonymous to ‘weak’ and ‘vulnerable.’

Arya was disappointed, but then asked if he would be joining them for dinner. Ned said yes. He added that Jon was eager to meet her as well, and to sweetened their palettes, he mentioned that Howland had prepared all of them gifts. While the other children seemed excited, a look of concern washed over Arya’s features. She hated the presents she received from other lords—boring things like dolls or hair pieces. Ned sensed this, and requested Arya be nice even if she does not care for the object. “They do not have much in the Neck, and since most crannogmen are omegas, even the girls are taught to fight. You might be getting a knife or a spear, knowing Howland.”

Arya perked up. “Really?”

“Yes. So be kind to Lord Reed.”

“I will!” Arya promised. She was still awed by his presence, and with a tenacity that befell all unruly children, she reached up to touch Jon again. This time, Robb stopped her. “Arya, quit it and let our brother sleep. He must be tired from his journey.”

“But—”

“Go prepare for dinner, or better yet, go find Lord Reed and make your acquaintance with him. You should be more welcoming to our guests,” Robb lectured. He wanted his siblings out of sight. He wanted to be alone with his father—and Jon. Especially Jon, his mind hissed. Especially the beautiful little brother who caught his eye the moment he entered Winterfell.

“But you haven’t greeted him yet!” Arya protested.

“I have to talk to father about something.” Anything, he’ll make up any story or excuse in order to follow his father into Jon’s bedroom.

Arya, with once last huff of annoyance, stormed off with his siblings following in tow. Sansa was especially eager to leave, and though she said no words of protest, Ned could see that she bit her lip to avoid correcting her older brother earlier. Half-brother, he could imagine her saying.

Ned sighed, and turned to his oldest son. “Do you mind coming with me to Jon’s room? You could talk to me there.”

Robb was surprised before he remembered his earlier statement. “Yes, it would be better to speak in private.”

Ned carried Jon into Lyanna’s bedroom, where there was a welcoming bundle of rabbit and fox furs of the highest quality, the kind that was bred for slaughter and not hunted down. Ned would never spare such a luxury for anyone else. He must have bought them in secret, thought Robb. For mother would have been screaming for the heavens if she knew.

“What did you want to talk about?” Ned asked once he placed his resting son in the bundle. Robb did not miss the way his father kept a hand close by in case his little brother leaned in for a touch.

“I…” He saw the collection of dolls resting on the shelf. He remembered hearing the servants being ordered to take Jon’s luggage indoors. The trunk they carried was heavy, and when someone asked what was in it, the guardsman had said ‘toys for Lord Stark’s bastard.’ The man grumbled in response, saying words Robb could not hear but knew were distasteful comments about his younger brother. “I wanted you to know that while you were gone, I made sure to say nothing but good things about Jon and Lord Reed to my sisters and brothers.” He thought some more of what to say. “And mother was gracious in her behavior as well.”

Ned said nothing. He planned to confirm such things himself. “Thank you, Robb.”

Robb would not be dismissed so easily. “I’m worried, though. Mother has expressed her disapproval about Jon’s presence. Not to us, I would have never allowed it! But I heard some of the maids talking and they were…not so kind.” Robb was bashful. “I ordered them to stop. I know it is not my place to make demands, but I told them that long as Jon carried the blood of a Stark, he would always be welcomed at Winterfell and should be treated with respect.”

His father chuckled. “You are a good brother. I know you have the sense not to allow your siblings’ minds to poisoned with myth.”

Robb beamed. “I will be a wonderful brother to Jon. I swear, father. He will never want for anything while I am alive.”

Ned beckoned Robb to come closer, and when he did, he received a fond ruffle of the hair. “I am most grateful. If possible, I would like you to consider a proposal.”

 “What kind of proposal?”

“The kind that would invite you to move your belongings.”

“Where?”

“Here,” answered Ned. “Take the room beside Jon’s own. Jon’s people are…affectionate. They enjoy being touched and watched over. With him so far away from home, I aim to make him as comfortable as possible. He needs—”

“Yes!” Robb agreed immediately. He coughed. “I mean I want Jon to be happy as well. I will gladly move rooms.”

Ned was grateful for the positivism. “It’s good that you are so eager to take responsibility.” He grasped onto Robb’s shoulder. “I want you to know Robb, that Jon is your little brother. That makes him yours. Yours to care for, and yours to protect. In return, he will care and protect you.”

“Will we be like you and Lord Reed?” Robb asked. “You told me that Lord Reed loves only you, and has sworn to be by your side forever. You said there was no one you trusted more in the world.”

“Yes,” Ned agreed. “One day, you will be the Lord of Winterfell and all of the North will be under your protection. Your siblings will be longed married and have taken their own vows of servitude. Jon will have you.”

“Because he is mine,” Robb parroted. “He will always be mine, even when you are gone.” He turned to his soundly sleeping brother. “In a letter, Lord Reed once told me that he was born for me. That’s why he’s an omega and I’m an alpha. Because we had to take care of each other’s needs when no one else can.”

Ned wondered if it was worrisome, to place so much responsibility on Robb at such a young age, to make him responsible for another life. Yet, he saw the resolve in Robb and felt it was for the best. Even if Jon had no allies, he would have the love of another Lord Stark, and that was what he needed to survive.

He got up to leave. “Take care of him, Robb.” When Ned walked to the door, he expected Robb to follow. Instead the boy stayed.

“I want to watch him for a while. Just until the men bring his things—that way he’ll be at home when he wakes up.”

Ned valued the logic. He told Robb to be on time for dinner; Lord Reed wanted to see him again.

Once alone, Robb could not control himself. He ran his hands through Jon’s hair, and when the boy did not wake, he drifted onto his face. Jon leaned into his touch. He purred when Robb stroked him. _More_ , his actions told Robb. He wanted more. Robb moved onto his chest and gave his brother’s nipple a little pinch. Jon whimpered but did not wake. Robb moved towards his groin, where a hot, aching quim rested beneath his fingers. The heat was smothering. He undid the tie of his little brother’s pants and removed them until they rested on his knees.

Robb’s mouth went dry. Down there, his pussy was so pretty and pink. He dipped two fingers into Jon’s folds and took them out at once. He looked as glistening fingers and tasted them. Robb moaned. It was so good, so creamy and filling. He put his fingers in again, this time with less patience. Once fully inside, he admired how hot his little brother was and how good he was at making all this honey for Robb. He was soaking his entire hand. Robb curled his fingers inside Jon and spread them open. He could feel Jon writhing and churning on his digits. He started to ride Robb’s hand like he was on a horse, and Robb was all too happy to comply with the tourney. He met every rise of Jon’s hips with his own movements, and worked actively on playing with Jon’s pleasure spot. Finally, when Jon was close, Robb took his fingers out and leaned over to give Jon’s clit an inquiring suck. Jon came all over Robb’s face.

Robb wiped it off, he could not resist licking his fingers clean. He moaned at the taste. He wondered if all omegas tasted as good, or if Jon was special. Surely he was; he could not understand how his father could keep his mouth clean if Lord Reed tasted as good.

When he was finished, Robb kissed Jon’s flushed cheeks and told him goodnight. “I’ll see you at dinner,” Robb promised. He left licking the remains off his fingers, and walked past the servants carrying two trunks worth of goods. They did not notice his content expression, and will probably not notice Jon’s fever.

Jon woke up shortly after night fell. His stomach rumbled with hunger, and he left his room in search of food. The moment he stepped out, however, he immediately retreated for the safety of his home. Everything was so big, he thought. Winterfell looked like it housed giants.

After he waited for a while, bored and frighten, but content with his surroundings, his father knocked on his door and asked to come in. Jon lunged on his body, telling him that he was hungry but did not know where to go. His father apologized for taking so long. He told Jon to observe his surroundings as he took him to the dining room, so that he could remember his way to the kitchen. Jon complied with his wishes. It was not until they reached their destination that he shuddered and curled deeper into his father’s arms.

The hall was almost three times the size of his dining room at home, and the ceilings were so high, he thought only mountains could reach the top. From his father’s arms, he could see the heads and faces of his siblings. One girl, about the same size as Jon, almost accosted him upon sight. She tried to reach out to him, and Jon was further heaved up his father’s shoulder.

“Arya,” he warned, “Be careful with your brother. He’s not used to his surroundings yet.”

Jon thought of protesting, saying that he was plenty capable of meeting his little sister. Then, his eyes caught sight of a young man, who Jon supposed could be his age or decades older—Jon could never tell with people outside the Neck. He clenched onto his father tighter. In response, his father asked what was wrong.

Jon blushed. He asked, “ _Hverr þeir_?” to his father in the Old Tongue. He knew his father had been taught a few phrases by his mother, and the latter encouraged Jon to speak it when he did not want to be understood. Then, he added, because the young man was so handsome, “ _Hann mjǫk fríðr_!”

Robb saw the blush on his cheeks, and thought it was adorable. He wanted to grab Jon from his father’s arms and keep him safe in his arms. Their father said something in response, an odd language he’d never heard before. Then, he heard his name.

Jon gasped, and he looked happy. He kissed his father on the cheek and asked for something. Robb felt envious. He heard the crannogmen needed to be touched, or they would go mad. He assured himself that when Jon was comfortable, he would kiss Robb and hug him as much as their father. More so, Robb thought, because they were brothers.

Old Nan came in with Lord Reed, his uncle, and their children. Meera kissed the aging woman on the cheek when she left to take her seat. The crone found herself surprised but charmed. She saw Jon and petted his curly hair. He kissed her on the forehead as a thank you. Robb bristled. Everyone got to touch Jon and got kisses from him. Why was he not allowed to hold him yet?

“He’ll be spoiled if you keep carrying him,” Old Nan lectured to their father. Robb hoped his father would heed the woman’s advice and let go of his little brother. Instead, Uncle Benjen simply pointed out that in the Neck, children who were not held by their parents were considered _þungr stein,_ and were believed to be bad luck.

“And we wouldn’t want to insult our guests by telling them to treat their children like heavy stones, do we?” Benjen teased. He, himself, was cradling a huddling Jojen. Despite being such a solitary character, even he enjoyed the touch of his family. Meera, bold and bright eye Meera, introduced herself to her cousins. When Jojen refused to leave his father’s side, Meera dragged him down to stand beside her.

“I am Meera. I am eight years old, and may one day be the Lady of House Reed. This is Jojen. He is six years old, and may one day be the Lord of House Reed. We are your cousins! It is very good to meet you!” Meera kissed Arya first, because she was the closest. Before moving onto Robb and Sansa, who were too shocked to do anything. She gave a slight peck to Bran, who actually leaned in and preened. The toddler would become very fond of the crannogmen’s methods. Howland could already tell.

“One day?” Robb was the first to question such declaration. “Isn’t your brother the heir, since he is a boy and an alpha?”

“The gods have not decided yet,” said Meera. “We cannot know for sure, except that a Reed has always rested in the Greywater Watch. If the gods forbid our inheritance, then we cannot take the chair.”

“How do you know?” Sansa asked. Try as she might, she could not completely withdraw herself from the strange guests. She was too curious about the exotic world so different from the rest of the North.

“Because they tell us, and then we tell the current Lord Reed.” Meera said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “If the gods are wrong, how are we expected to listen to humans?”

“But…” Sansa protested. “Could you not just lie, and say that the gods said it was you?”

“We cannot lie about what the gods say,” Meera countered. She sounded aghast by the suggestion. Before she could proclaim further protest, Howland asked that Meera silence herself.

“I do not enjoy witnessing faith being shoved down the throats of nonbelievers, and I expect Lady Sansa does not like it either.”

Meera wanted to say something, but her mother’s word was final. She apologized to her cousin, and took a seat. Benjen sat beside her, and Howland took a positioned next to him. He took Jojen into his lap. Howland looked at the children across from him. They were beautiful.

“It is good to finally meet you. I am Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, the wife of your uncle and the mother of your brother, Jon.” Howland smiled. “I am most happy. I have always wanted to meet Ned’s children.”

The children in question were silent. Sansa and Robb, the eldest of the five, did not expect Lord Reed to be so kind. They had thought he would be angry at them for existing, for not carrying his blood. Rickon was no older than a babe. He cared nothing but for his mother’s arms, who was currently holding him as if she thought Howland would spirit him away. Bran was staring at Jojen who stared back. The older boy smiled and when Bran giggled, Jojen turned to whisper something to his sister. Meera swatted him on the arm. “Stop your jests,” she hissed, as if he had said something crude. Perhaps he did, but no one else heard.   

Arya was excited. For she was a child, and did not recognize the dire situation her family was in. She did not see Howland as her father’s mistress, but as a known warrior who saved her father’s life and bore her older brother. Howland caught her admiring gaze, and addressed her immediately. “I would like to offer you all gifts for welcoming my family.” One of the servants, who had been awaiting such a cue, came forth with a trunk. “The crannogmen are poor people but we are rich where it matters.”

“And what is that?” Catelyn snapped.

“Happiness,” Howland answered. “Soul. Love. We are a community where joy takes precedent. We love our sons and daughters, trueborn or natural, born from the wind in the skies or the mud in the waters.” The trunk rested by Howland’s side. He opened it and handed out his gifts in little boxes. Arya grasped onto hers, but to her surprise, it did not open.

“I think my box is broken,” Arya announces as she shakes its contents. Ned warned her against it, and Howland laughed.

“You are not ready to open yet. None of you are,” Howland explained. “The boxes open when your hearts do. It is blessed by an ancient magic that not even the maesters know of.”

Catelyn, who had bared the brunt of Howland’s magic, rescinded the offer. She took the present out of Sansa’s hand and gave it back. “My children do not want your witchcraft.”

“Mother,” Robb protested. He easily dismissed his mother’s fears as he investigated the box. “Howland is joking. It is probably puzzle of some sort. We just need to figure out how to unlock it.” He heard of such contraptions in the stories. The knot that could not be undone, or the box that held a secret compartment.

Howland was amused. “Believe what you want. But these gifts are for your children, not you.”

Sansa looked away. “I do not want it.”

“Sansa,” Ned reprimanded. “It is rude to refuse a lord’s offer.”

“If it is not a gift from my mother, then I do not need it.” She leaned in closer with her loving parent, and refused to leave her side the entire dinner. Catelyn rested a protective arm around her favorite child. She was a good girl.

Howland stopped Ned from pushing her further. He addressed Sansa with grace. “Lady Sansa, you have a strong, northern soul. I admire your fidelity to your mother.” He took back Sansa’s gift. “Jon will hold this in his room until you are ready to receive it.”

The comment unnerved Sansa, who did not expect such gracefulness from the man her father betrays her mother with. While none of the children were able to open their presents, they were excited by them. Bran and Arya were advent believers of the Neck’s supernatural origins. Magic was capture in their tiny hands and they were eager to see what was inside. Arya, a finicky girl, wondered if opening their hearts was some sort of curse. She wondered if she should bathe the box in blood or something demonic of the sort.

Howland took out a pouch and asked for the Greyjoy boy. Theon’s head perked up, and though he was years older than Robb, he appeared as much as a child as the Arya or Bran. Howland smiled full of compassion and eyes glazed with sympathy. “I wanted to give this to you.”

The ironborn omega walked towards him. He was cautious, and his face was covered with a frown permanently latched on his face since he was taken in by Lord Stark. Howland found him comely, though only the conventional sort. When the boy was close enough to touch, Howland took his hand and undo the bag with his nimble fingers.   

“Why does Theon get a pouch?” Arya asked, a jealously tinged her tone.

“Because Theon is full of misfortune,” Howland answered. He stroked Theon’s cheek, and the boy shivered. He was surprised by the sensation, for even in the Iron Islands, he was not well acquainted with touch. “A child should never have to pay for his father’s crimes.”

He revealed a lovely woven bracelet, made of the tender reeds that grew on the edge of the swamps and was decorated with a single pearl. It was small, with little value except for its prettiness, but it reminded Theon of home.

“I remember when you were taken from your home—we had to pry you out of your mother’s arms. She kept begging us not to take away her last son. She asked for mercy, and wailed like a banshee as you were carried out those doors. You weren’t supposed to be the one, did you know that?”

Theon nodded. “Yes, my lord.” He remembered the argument with a sense of anger and sorrow that no amount of pompous showcasing he did in the North could ever rid his mind of the truth. He was the unwanted one.

“It was supposed to be your sister, because she was an alpha, and the heiress. But your father tried to convince Lord Stark to take you. He said you were just an omega. The Baratheon king said that was more reason to refuse, but I convinced Ned to take you.”

Theon seemed surprised by the news. “Why?”

Ned tried to stop Howland from talking. “Howland, he’s a child.”

Howland ignored him. “He’s older than our son.” He brushed Theon’s hair from his face. “On that day, I saw something in your soul. Something that will amount to great things. Do you remember your brothers?”

Theon shook his head. He remembered their cruelty, how they fought viciously in battle and tortured him at home, with compulsive lies and degrading japes against his manhood. They teased him for his small cock and cunt, and every remark led Theon to retreat to his mother’s arms or his older sister’s protection. He did not remember their faces, he did not remember anything but a figure. “No, my lord.”

“They were stupid, cruel men.” Howland smiled. “I believed I killed one of them, or could have. There was one man who bore your sigil on his shield. He guarded the walls on Pyke, and when he tried to kill me, I did not let him. He managed to throw me into the water before he died” He kissed Theon’s wrist. “I believe you can be better than them.”

Theon nodded, unsure of what to make of such a prophecy. He took his hand back and thanked Lord Reed for his bracelet. He admired it, despite wanting to keep his pride. The ironborn are not allowed such beautiful goods to be gifts, and it was so pretty. He’d never seen a freshwater pearl before.

Howland dismissed him and he went back to his seat. While the children played with the mechanisms, the servants brought out their soups and meats. The crannogmen children were surprised by the display of fresh venison. Jon poked his dish with a finger. The dish burnt it and yet he was more impressed than hurt. He told his sister, his excitement getting the better of him, that the flesh was thick and full of juices.

“Jon, we have guests,” Howland reminded.

Jon covered his mouth. The other children stared at them strangely, as if they thought they imagined the sounds coming out of Jon’s mouth. Jon blushed furiously and repeated the sentiment to his father. Ned chuckled, and chose to ignore the slip. “You’ve had it before, but back then it was jerky. The meat would have become rotten when I arrived to the Neck. I think you and your siblings will like it.”

Meera, the most curious of the Reeds, dug into it and chewed. She was happily surprised. “It is very good uncle!” She turned to her father. “Will we be eating like this often?”

“I suppose so,” Benjen agreed. He took a gulp of his ale.

“Will we grow big like you?” Jojen asked. He took a small, meek little bite. He made a noise of approval that was met with Howland cutting up the pieces for him. He was fed another bite. Meera and Jon protested the treatment, which was met with Benjen cutting up Meera’s own steak and Jon being fed a piece by his father.

“Maybe Old Nan was right about being spoiled,” Benjen muttered playfully. Meera kissed her father on the cheek. They ate happily and hungrily.

Jon asked new siblings want they liked to do. Arya said she enjoyed riding horses, and Jon was amaze. He called her fearless. She was smaller than him! “Do you plan on being a skjaldmær?”

“A what?”

“It is an Old Tongue word. It is simply the term for a warrior who can give life as well as take it. So all omegas who fight are skjaldmær and so are alpha females. My father is one, and Meera and I hope to be one as well.”

Arya was delighted by the prospect. She turned to her father. “Father, can I become a ska…sciel…whatever Jon said?”

Ned found the answer lost on his tongue. Catelyn was the first to deny such a prospect. “Arya, the battlefield is no place for ladies.”

“But—!”

“Arya,” Catelyn interrupted. “This is not for discussion. Your father and I agree that your place is in a home.” She smiled. “You’ll do a lot of good in this world managing a household and making sure your children are safe and your lord is happy and wise. Like the good queen Alysanne.”

“But I don’t want that!” Arya retorted bitterly.

Her yelling caused her father to order her silence. “Do not shout, Arya.” Catelyn sighed, and wanted to soothe her youngest daughter’s ailments. She did not want to upset her, but she did not want to award her child with notions of false hope. She heard of the dangers that befell women and omegas in the camp; they were all slaughtered and rape by their enemies. Even their own allies if they were corrupted by their vile and carnal desires. She would not allow such a punishment on her child, even if Lord Reed saw to it to put his children in danger.

“We can discuss whether you are able to train with you brothers in the future. For now, you are too young.”

The notion surprised everyone in the room. Howland caught Lady Stark’s eye, and in return he rested an indiscrete hand onto Ned’s thigh. He whispered in his ear, and there was a brief huff of arousal. Catelyn tightened her grip on her fork. No, she thought, they would not. If Ned was so far seduced by the whims of a witch, she would protect her children from harm.

Jon continued talking to Arya, and while Meera was preoccupied with Bran. Jojen became jealous by the lack of attention, and started speaking with the toddler as well. Though, Bran was for claims, his simple sentences brought great joy to the two Reeds.

Sansa remained quiet. Yet, with a wandering eye on Jon and her brothers and sisters, it was clear she wanted attention. She wanted to talk about dresses and dolls with Jon, and tell stories about her tea parties with Jeyne and Turnip. Robb was silent for an entirely different reason.

Gage took the liberty to bring out two trays of strawberry tarts as promised. He wanted to see their reactions. “Here, for my little lizard lady.”

Meera giggled. She took her first bite and almost squealed in delight. “It is the most delicious I’ve ever tasted!” She declared. She grinned, a mouth stained with red. “Thank you, Gage!”

Jojen waited for his mother to hand him a piece and his eyes widened when the taste of wild strawberries and juicy filling covered his mouth. He took large bites, and would only pause when Howland warned him not eat too fast.

When it was Jon’s turn, his heart was pounding in excitement. He did not notice his older brother sneaking behind him, and taking the tart out of his hand. Jon blinked in confusion.

“I want to feed you,” Robb revealed. He shimmied in between Jon and the Reeds and raised the pastry up for Jon to taste. Though initially shocked, Jon found himself flattered instead of annoyed. He opened his mouth as one would for a cock, and waited for Robb to invade his mouth with the pastry. Once inside, Jon bit into it, letting his lips stain red. He closed his eyes and chewed at the delicious morsel. He moaned and opened his eyes. He smiled, shyly, _temptingly_.

“It is delicious. Thank you.”

Robb was stunned for a moment, and then asked his brother if he would like another bite. Jon nodded and allowed himself to be fed. Ned hid his grin. His son was taking his duties very serious, and as a father, he was proud to see his sons get along. When Jon was finished with his pastry, he sucked and licked the crumbs off Robb’s fingers. Everyone already finished their desserts except Robb. Instead of eating it, Robb offered his tart for Jon.

He picked it up and placed it next to Jon’s lips. Jon did not open them.

“What’s the matter? I thought you liked them.”

Jon averted his gaze. “It would not be right of me to take from you.”

Robb narrowed his eyes. “You are not taking it. I am offering. Open your mouth and let me feed you.”

“Robb.” The Winterfell heir looked up to see his father’s frown. “If your brother does not want it, do not force him. He might get sick if he eats too much.”

“That’s not what he said,” Robb countered. “He said he did not want to take from me. Here, Jon.” He bit into the pastry, swallowed it and announced he was full. “Now, you must have it or it will go to waste.”

Something was caught in Jon’s throat. Then, he nodded and opened his mouth again. Truth be told, he loved it. He wanted to eat a hundred of them. Robb watched with great satisfaction as Jon swallowed his bite. “Is it good?”

Jon nodded. “Thank you, Robb.”

“He can eat it himself,” Catelyn interrupted. “He is not an invalid.”

Robb did not care. “He is my brother and I must take care of him. I want to make sure he is full.”

Jon glowed with pride at having been accepted as Robb’s brother, and not a burden on the Stark heir. He finished up the pastry with great eagerness, and licked off Robb’s fingers again. This time, leaning forward to rest his hands on Robb’s thighs. Catelyn had enough of such sensuous imagery. She saw Howland’s smirking face, and knew something must be done.

“Jon, have you bathed yet? I heard you were sleeping all day?” Catelyn asked, and winced at her harsh tone. She prayed to the Mother for the strength to be kind to this child, this being who reminded her of everything she could never have with her husband. She could not smile, but she was able to weather the concern she had for Robb and direct towards Jon. “You should bathe. If you wait any longer, you might catch a cold.”

“Your concern is very touching,” Howland noticed. To Catelyn’s surprised, he agreed. “My son should take a bath.”

“We can have the servants draw one up right now.”

“That will not be necessary. I had hoped to show my children the hot springs, but I suppose Jon can get the first look. Robb, would you mind showing your little brother to the springs underground? I think he will be most grateful for your guidance.”

Robb perked up. “I would be honored, Lord Reed.” He stood up and took Jon by the hand. “You will love it…the hot water on your muscles is like another heaven.”

Jon beamed. “I am happy you are the one to show me.” Robb let him out of the door, and before anyone left, Jon heard his sister asked why they couldn’t go with them.

“You already took a bath, my love,” Howland announced. He woke them up early to be able to facilitate the time for Robb and Jon to be alone. Poor Cat, who was seething in her seat. Things never go the way she planned, Howland mocked.

Catelyn stood up with a huff and demanded to talk to Ned. The lord begrudgingly complied.  Benjen and Howland guided their children outside while the rest of the Starks pitter pattered to their own rooms. Sansa was given Rickon to hold. When passing Ned, Howland whispered for him to visit his bedchambers when he was done. It had been hours since their last coupling.

Outside the doors, Lady Stark announced that she was horrified Ned let Jon be alone with their son. “You know what bastards do to trueborn children.”

“I know what some natural born children do to some trueborn children. I know my sons would never hurt each other.” Ned was sure of this. He had seen the way Robb looked at Jon, as if the light of the sun came from his smile. Jon worshiped Robb, had been wanting to meet and befriend his older brother since the moment he could speak.

“You don’t know that!” Catelyn denied. “You barely know the boy!”

“And whose fault is that?”

Catelyn was taken back, for she never heard such viciousness from Ned, not even when Catelyn made the mistake of speaking ill about Lord Reed. Catelyn calmed herself. “I don’t want my son to get hurt. You don’t know what that…what Lord Reed is capable of. What he wants.” You don’t know what he promised to do, because every time she thought about revealing what happened all those months ago, her resolve was overcome with the fear of being locked away and labeled a mad woman.

“I know what he is capable of better than anybody. I also know he wants to be with me. I know he wants his son to be happy. Just like you.” Ned sighed. “You are many things, Catelyn. But above all, you are a good mother. You love your children. If you truly fear Jon’s presence, do you think it is wise to anger Jon into lashing out at his brothers and sisters?”

Catelyn froze, and after some thought, she shook her head. “I understand, my lord. Forgive me for impulsive fears.” He was no help. She would settle this her own way. She would protect her son from the Witch of Winterfell’s schemes, regardless of any threat to her life.

Ned saw through her façade but he was tired of fighting. “Thank you, Lady Stark.”

Robb took Jon to his favorite spring, the one located right underneath the glass gardens where the fruits and vegetables grew. He explained to Jon that it was the warmest area in Wintefell, and in the daytime, it was hotter than a summer’s day in Dorne. He said because of the strawberries and the pears and the greens that grew, the air was cleaner. Jon agreed, and said he would like to visit above one day.

Robb tucked a stray curl from Jon’s ear. “I will show you tomorrow, and I will also bring you to the crypts to visit our aunt and uncle.” And he would show him the inside of the Great Keep, and the Library Tower with thousands of books on warriors and kings, and the gargoyles of the First Keep where they could be left alone.  

“Will you show me the godswoods? Father told me your weirwood is magnificent,” Jon asked. He sounded so excited.

“I will take you anywhere you would like,” Robb promised. He saw a sweat bead fall down Jon’s skin. He suggested they partake in the bath that was promised. “Do you mind me bathing with you?”

“Not at all,” Jon chirped. “I find it odd that some people here do not bathe with their families.” He stripped himself, revealing a plate of delicious, unmarked skin. “But then again, you have private baths here, and no lizard lions to fear.”

“Perhaps we should consider the crannogmen methods,” Robb said offhandedly as his eyes took in Jon’s body. He took off his shirt when he realized that Jon was almost completely nude. He did not stop staring when he did so. “I will bathe with you as often as you like, until you are more used to bathing alone.”

He laughed at Robb’s proposition. “Then I will never get used to being alone!” Jon dipped his toes into the steaming water and then sunk into the springs. He moaned when he was completely immersed in the comfort of heat. He flicked some water at Robb. “What are you staring at? Join me!”

Robb almost tripped attempting to comply. He went into the water and his weight caused a wave to wash over Jon. He giggled and swam over. “I’ve always wanted an older brother,” Jon confessed. “I like being an older brother but sometimes…I just want to be taken care of.” He smiled at Robb. “Father promised that you will love me.”

“I will—I do!” Robb swore. “I am very good at being an older brother. You will not be disappointed.” He made it so that they were no more than an inch apart. Up close, Jon is overwhelmed. He tried to swim back but Robb caught his arm and drag him forward until their chests were touching and Jon could feel Robb’s boyhood pressing against his thigh. He was big.

“You look like my father,” Robb said.

Jon nodded. He heard that being said many times before. Robb smiled. “Except you are much prettier—you are the prettiest omega I’ve ever seen. You’re prettier than my sisters.”

Jon smiled but he felt uncomfortable with the grip on his hand and tried to struggle free. Robb only tighten his hold on him. “Why do you try to escape?”

“I—”

“I would let you go if you asked.”

Jon said nothing.

“No other alpha would heed your demands. You’ve blossom like a flower, and now you can marry and have babies. Even if you didn’t want babies, you’d still have to have them. Your husband would hurt you if you didn’t.” Robb kissed his cheek. “But I would never let them. You will never have to marry anybody you did not want to while I am the heir to Winterfell.”

“I…” Jon was silent. He looked down. “Thank you, Robb.”

Robb gently stroke his chin upwards. “You’re so quiet. You and my father, you’re both quiet wolves. That’s what people call him.”

Jon knew that, and asked Robb if they should get out. The heat was overwhelming him. He was not used to such temperatures. Robb told him to stop being silly. “You haven’t stayed here long enough—I’ll tell you when the heat is too much.”

Jon whimpered when Robb gripped onto his ass. He felt a long finger poke at his hole. As a hormonal young omega, it felt good. He was growing wet and hoped the water hid his arousal.

“Gods, you’re beautiful.”

“Please let me go.”

“Why are you so scared of me? I’m your brother. I will protect you from harm. You do not have to be afraid of me.”

“Robb!”

“I will always protect you.”  

“Let go of me, Robb!” Jon was serious. 

For a second, he swore Robb would refuse his demand, would order him to stay because he was a lord’s and Jon’s older brother and could do what he wanted. But after a moment passed, Robb loosened his grip and Jon was released. Almost instantly, Jon got out of the springs. He hastily put on his clothes and ran out of the hot springs. Robb stayed in the waters, glowering at the doorway that Jon left through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Originally, I used up my maximum characters to rant about this reviewer who really upset me. For the first time in the eight years I've been writing fanfiction, I had to delete a review(s). It was not that s/he flamed me, because they didn't, not in the literal sense, but the first time they reviewed, they wrote “U don’t u just do a one shot instead of dragging it out and makeing people wait forver for a update" and the second time, they wrote “Y don’t you just do a one shot instead of dragging it out. When a story takes to long to b updated people lose intrest.” The comment irritated me because this wasn’t a critique on my writing—this was unnecessary advice from a non-writer who assumed that writing was just so fucking easy, that my story could be finished in a one shot. My story, which begins with a chapter with over 10000 words, is ONLY being dragged on to make people wait. I don’t like it when people assume such negativity about my person, and I don't like it when people belittle how much work writers put into making a quality product. To give a clue to what I originally wrote, it had the lines "If I could shit words out my ass, I would gladly finish this story in a hundred thousand word oneshot."  
> I was very upset. But I deleted the original rant because it is none of anybody's business who I have problems with. You guys are here to enjoy the story. I still wanted to vent a little, haha, which is why I wrote this but not to the expense that my anger takes away the joy of my story. I am grateful for everyone who reads this story, and I apologize to those who read the original rant.  
> 2\. Back to business! For cultural reference, while it is rare for omega males and alpha females to fight, it is not unusual. I based their warrior culture off the Viking lore. Alpha females and omega males are the shield maidens of Westeros. Female omegas almost never fight, but there are some exceptions (which we will see).  
> 3\. Yes, I am using Old Norse in replacement of the Old Tongue. Because the Old Tongue (in the books and the shows) have different dialects, the one used by the Neck is based in Old Norse.  
> 4\. If you have any questions about the story, please ask. If it's a spoiler question for the story (and there won't be a lot because I am writing this as I go), I will tastefully assuage your fears.


	3. Chapter 3

The servants brought roasted chestnuts and left them on the nightstand because Gage remembered how much Howland enjoyed them when he was pregnant. He said it was a Northerner’s greatest plight when they were in their sacred condition, as he himself inhaled an entire tree when he carried his little Turnip in his belly. When Gage’s mother was the head cook of Winterfell, Lyarra Stark ate them every morning and night for all four pregnancies. She was a fearsome woman; wit as sharp as pine needles, and thunder that pounded with her step. Her grip was firm when she handled her four wolves. The water that ran through her veins turned to ice when Rickard Stark began his secretive nights with Maester Walys, and began organizing marriages for her four children to loathsome Southerners. Ned recalled her fondly, with memories of her carrying him on her broad shoulders as she took him to the highest towers of Winterfell so that he could overcome his fear of heights, or her taking him to the lakes during winter so that he knew how to ice fish. They slept in separate bedrooms after Ned was sent to the Eyrie. She was furious. Though Lord Rickard was adamant in building his alliances, he never took another woman to bed. He loved his wife in spite of how she despised him.

She died while Ned was away, and would not see any one but her children on her deathbed. She claimed, in her madness, that her family had been poisoned by the southerners. Ned never learned what she died of. Pneumonia was what the maester concluded, though the servants would deny the thought of their lady succumbing to disease. Some say she was poisoned. His father never acknowledged the loss, and had the maids clean her room every fortnight as if she planned to rise from the dead.

Howland was given her room while he stayed, and after he leaves, it would become Ned’s room. He did not want to insult his lady wife further by demanding her relocation.

Howland cracked open a nut with his teeth and dug into the creamy meat of it. Ned came storming into the room at that moment, paused, and stared at the seed in Howland’s fingers. 

“Are you with child?” Ned asked. He gazed into his stomach with hopefulness that overshadowed the worry that wore down his wrinkles.

Howland was surprised, but then giggled. “No, I am not. I have taken my medicine.” Ned face dropped, and though Howland felt for him, they knew it was for the best. They already agreed that more children would be a bigger a liability on their hearts. He walked up to Ned and pressed the other half of the chestnut into Ned’s mouth. He chewed on it and they kissed. When they parted, Ned asked why he told Theon about his brother. 

Howland hummed as he fussed with the buttons on Ned’s shirt. He slipped it off his shoulders and looked up at Ned with half lidded eyes, intoxicated by lust and the ghosts that resided in this bedroom. Ned attacked his neck and Howland moaned with pleasure. He jumped to wrap his legs around Ned’s waist and clung one hand on his back and another in Ned’s hair to keep steady. He sucked on his earlobe and whispered that he wanted to see a reaction. “I needed to make sure there was no love lost between Theon and his horrid family.”

“He will never hate his family. He knows he has to return one day.”

Howland was far from convinced and kissed Ned until they were both breathless. He was laughing, and his eyes carried nothing but unreserved amusement. Ned knew he was keeping secrets from him. Howland asked why Theon had to return at all. He was not the heir; why could Ned not marry him off to some high lord’s son. “You are more his father than that blasted salt lord. Why not take advantage of his gratitude? He is a pretty child.”

Ned narrowed his eyes. “The Iron Islands are his home, and we cannot keep him forever. He must be sent back as a token of good will between us and the Ironborn.”

“You think you can turn a squid into a wolf by raising him like cub—I do not. Those of the sea, their blood runs blue while a wolf is red. Tentacles do not become paws, rubber cannot replicate fur. Theon Greyjoy is trapped on a melting island that threatens to dissipate into the salted seas, but once he is in the water, he cannot defend himself against the sharks that wish to feast his flesh. You should have given him to me when I asked.”

“What did you plan on doing with him?”

Howland laughed. “I would have received his loyalty; I would not have allowed him to linger in this limbo of iron and ice. He would have made a fine companion to Jon and would have been his protector. You fall deeper in love when you give rather than when you receive. Theon must give to Jon and he will love him all the more for it. I will do what I can while I am here, and instruct Jon to do the same.”

Ned did not approve of such plans. “You cannot use children in your schemes.”

“I saw his soul, Ned.” Howland warned. “He has the will for treachery and the capacity for great horrors. He will betray our son and yours for the chance to belong. I will do us both a favor by subduing his proclivities. He will be loyal, and he will be useful.”

Ned tossed his lover onto the bed, but Howland grinned at the rough treatment. Ned was adamant about maintaining Theon’s connection to the salt islands. “He will be an outcast there if he is too northern. I do not want the bond between him and my children growing too strong.”

“He is already too Northern.” Howland grimaced. He recovered from his sudden attack and laid languidly on the bed, allowing his robe to come undone. “Why not make him one of us? I bet he is quite fertile—he will make a pretty wife to one of your less loyal lords. Keep an ear out for Robb if there is a snake in the garden.”

“He will lose that ear if he is found out,” Ned countered. “No, he will return to the Iron islands, to prevent any further rebellions.”

“You can easily suffocate any child of insurgence from those desolate lands. No, when a man is hit, it is not the arrow that struck that kills him but the infection festering from within. Your own men keep you vulnerable.” Howland felt his seduction wavering under his frustration. “I have told you once and I will tell you again: your honor will kill you Lord Stark. I will protect you, but there's almost so much protection I offer you and our children.”

“Theon respects Winterfell and my rule.”

Howland laughed. “When you were fostered, did you once consider yourself a falcon? A bird of prey instead of the beast that you are?”

Ned said nothing.

“Why believe Theon is any different? Omegas are not as susceptible to pretty promises and decadent deceptions as you believe. Some of us use our minds as well as our cunts. We are not here solely for the sake of alphas. We have our own motivations as well.”

The mood gone, Ned backed away from the supple body. Howland sighed and attempted to reassure Ned that he meant nothing nefarious. “Love can be bred for even the worst masters, and you know that Jon is a sweet, good boy. Theon will be cherished under new instruction, and he will have the North to thank for it. Imagine him going back to the Iron islands and him witnessing the rape and raiding. Would you rather have him join, or protest?” Howland walked up to the older man whose back was now turned. He wrapped his arms around Ned's waist and sucked on the flesh. The hybrid of air and ice that resided on top of Ned’s skin was finer than any venison or strawberry tart. Howland could not trail any higher, and decided that Ned must go down.

“You convinced me to take him over his sister because you reminded me of what happened to omegas on those islands. Now you intend to use him for your own purposes.”

“I only ask you to do what is natural,” Howland explained. “He is not a kraken; he has been weaned by wolves and the milk has turned him into a maiden of the sea. If you try to hold him with a firm grip of devotion, he will slip out. There’s a reason the sea beasts went extinct. They went mad, and so the First Men and those who sing songs of earth had to get rid of them. You cannot fight insanity with sobriety.”

“I do not want to talk about this. I am not his father; I have no sovereignty over his being.”

“You act as if you are and then claim you are not. This confuses the boy and makes him questions his faithfulness. I am trying, Ned, to guarantee the safety of the children. You and that woman may not see it, for your union is a travesty, but I can.”

“What do you mean?”

“Catelyn Tully is not meant to lay with you. She is a fish; she is meant to fill your belly not warm your bed. Her body is soft and ours are hard. She is prey not predator, and when winter finally comes, she will either die with the rest of them or swim underneath an ice cage, content with servitude while we, as hunters, will rule.”

Ned grabbed Howland and pushed him to the bed. “No more talk of this ruling. No more of this madness, Howland. We spoke about this.”

“Aye, and you ended the conversation before I could convince you. You may be too far North to see the signs but the world has not been in sync since the death of the dragons. The towers in the south are crumbling and the cages are unleashing the grand beasts so that they may fight to see who reigns. Personally, I intend to see to it that iron melts and a wolf sleeps on bronze.”

Ned had enough. He pushed Howland on the bed and kept a grip on his throat. “No more. Howland, I will not have your predictions lead us to a war.”

“Not my predictions,” Howland countered softly. He was smiling in spite of the way his throat constricted by the lost of air. “My son’s. Jojen has the sight.”

“What?”

“He has visions, of days past and of future omens. And his power is far greater than mine.” Howland was fearless with the hand on his neck, a moment away from strangulation. Men have pissed themselves for less. “The stag is not meant to hold the throne, and you know this. I saw you, Ned. When they placed that crown on Robert’s head, you were terrified of the things to come. But I am telling you, the lands will die and then be reborn. The stag will fall.”

Ned dragged Howland and flipped him so that his knees rested on the hard floor, as if he was punishing him for a foul mouth. “What you are saying is treason.”

“When the stag falls,” Howland breathed out as Ned ripped away his undergarments. “The south will burn, the river will ride on fire and the fishes will grow legs or they will die. He saw it all.” Howland twisted his head to kiss Ned’s lips. “We could be together again.”

And by the gods, Ned wanted that. He wanted to fall into the dark abyss of Howland’s prophecies and allow the destruction to happen. Instead, he undid his pants and pressed his cock against Howland’s backside. “No,” he growled. “Stop, Howland, before you do something you regret.”

Howland tightened his grip on the sheets. He laughed at the thought of regretting anything that would lead him to have Ned again. Ned entered Howland with the finesse of a boar and Howland craved the roughness. Enjoyed it more than their gentle love making because he knew that Ned could never fuck Lady Stark the same way. Knew he thought she was too fragile to withstand his raw cock and could never experience the sweet burn of an abuse hole.    

While he pounded into Howland’s hole recklessly, he kept a hand interlaced with Howland’s own. The sensation was sweet, but made Howland moan louder and scream higher for he had nothing to hold onto when Ned made a particularly hard thrust against his prostate. He bit the sheets, his arms, anything to keep himself from crying. It was maddening how Ned was when he had no control, when he split Howland’s tiny body in half with his large cock and pounded into him until he was bloated and gaping.

When Ned spilled inside him, he told Howland, “Never again. Never speak of such treachery again.”

Howland made no promises, and instead, kissed his lover hard enough to bruise their lips and took a hold of Ned’s lower lip with his teeth. He bit, but not hard enough to draw blood. He shoved off any attempt of Ned’s soft touches and comfort for freckles made of bruises. “I can give you your heart’s desire,” he murmured. “I am the only one who can provide the life you yearn for. What _we_ always yearned for.”

Ned released him and tossed him onto the bed. He positioned his cock so that it was touching Howland’s cunt. Howland tipped his head back and waited to be entered. They heard a noise at the doorway, and immediately, Ned turned around to face whoever was watching them.

Robb spent hours looking for Jon, and the night was becoming fearsome. He asked the guards if they had seen him, and they reassured him that Jon had not left their gates. It was a small reassurance, but one he needed to hear. He could not bear it if Jon saw to his premature departure by leaving. He would not survive outside these walls if someone wished to do him harm.

Robb sought Jon throughout the gardens and the halls, asked every available servant and worker to keep an eye out. When they asked if Jon was missing, Robb reassured them that they were playing a game. If it got any darker, Robb would tell the truth. For now, he wanted to be the one who rescued Jon. After he finished these halls, he would go to the crypt. On his way to the west exist, he heard animalistic noises coming from his deceased grandmother’s room. He was told that they were ghosts within these walls, and the child within him could not help but shiver at the superstition. He peeked for the sake of settling his suspicions.

“Hmph!” Robb shoved a hand over his own mouth at the sight. He could not contain his gasp. His father was inside Lord Reed—he was—they were—gods! Howland was bent over the bed, knees digging into the hard wood and getting speared by his father’s big cock. No matter how deep his father thrusted inside or how fast he moved, Howland never screamed a word of protested. He enjoyed serving his lord; it was his duty to do so and his instead of running his hips buckled with every thrust. When he was flipped over, Robb saw a glistening untouched cunt waiting to be plowed.. He could not control himself. He moaned.

Ned charged towards him before he gained the sense to run away. His eyes widened when he saw his son. “What are you doing here?” He looked over at Howland, who recovered from his own surprise. "Were you watching us?" 

Robb tried not to tremble. He knew lying to his father was not a possibility, but the shame of admitting the truth was almost too much to bear. Yet, he clenched his fist and prepared himself for the deserved punishment.

“I…” He bit his lip. “I lost Jon.”

“What?” Ned’s stern expression became molded with rage. He gripped onto his oldest son’s shoulders and demanded Robb to explain himself.

“We got into a fight at the hot springs. He…he ran off. I got him angry. I’m so sorry father!”

Ned brought him closer to him. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know, father!” Robb burned with shame. “I checked the guards, and the servants. They said they haven’t seen him. He has not left Winterfell; I am sure of that!”

Ned was not soothed by such declarations. He put on his clothes, and swore a great punishment after he found his son. “Go to your room, Robb. Do not expect mercy from me tomorrow.”

Robb shivered but could not defend himself. However, his father chose to punish him, he would gracefully accept it as his just desserts. If Jon was hurt in anyway, any punishment less than a beheading was undeserving.

“Jon is not harmed. I would know if he is,” Howland revealed. His confidence was reassuring. He turned to Robb with an odd gleam in his mind. “But with it being so dark, I am sure he must be terrified.”

Robb shivered under Lord Reed’s gaze. Howland grinned like a cat who swallowed a canary whole.

Ned saw nothing but the red of his son’s blood, stranded somewhere in Winterfell, eyes bawling at the sight of shadows. He left the room in a fury.

Officially alone with Lord Reed, Robb became empathetic with a fly consumed with the pheromones of flytrap. He could not resist the musk of sex and arousal that lingered in the room so potent after a rough coupling. He looked up for a second and regretted. Howland was entrancing with his moonlit green eyes, big as a child’s but with none of the innocence.

“Come closer, my love. I cannot hear you when you are so far away.” His voice was like a siren. Robb obeyed and settled for sitting on the cusp of the bed. Howland joined him side by side, but did not bother to close his robe. Robb was entranced by the bare flesh. His nipples were hard with arousal. Robb was sure that if he stood up, there would be a puddle of his father’s cum beneath him. He tried to look away, but Howland captured his face and forced his stare.

Robb gulped down the coward’s spittle in his throat. “Are you not going to search for Jon?”

“No,” Howland shook his head. “I know he is safe. The gods have gifted my son with great guidance—he has never remained lost for long, someone always finds him.” Howland wrapped an arm around Robb’s shoulder and drew him in closer. He hummed. “I am grateful for this opportunity. It has been a long time since we’ve been alone together. You were still suckling on my teats then.”

Robb remembered, much to Old Nan’s claims that he was too young to even comprehend such an action. “Mother got sick, so you became my wet nurse. I am thankful.”  

Lord Reed smiled with such fondness, Robb almost believed he could be his son. His touch served as a healing balm to Robb’s trembles. He made the mistake of staring at Lord Reed’s ruined body, tender and purple from his father’s fucking. He was envious that his father had such a thrall in his possession. Lord Reed craved his father’s touch. Lord Reed would never run away from his father, because his father was powerful and strong and could provide Lord Reed with everything he’s ever wanted. Robb was a boy, and Jon saw how pitiful he was so he left him. His inferiority made Robb more distressed at his actions. 

“I’m scared,” he confessed.

“Why are you scared? I am not angry. Brothers fight. You should have seen the tussle your father had with your Uncle Brandon at the Tourney of Harrenhal, or when Benjen impregnated me with my lovely Meera. He was burning with jealousy.” Howland laughed, and the melodious nature lightened the Robb’s heart immensely. Still, he could not stifle his concern.

“I…It is my fault Jon is not with us anymore. I scared him off by…by being very rough with him. He was so beautiful—I wanted us to be like you and father. I acted foolishly. I don’t understand why he…he is supposed to be mi…” The words died on his lips. He turned to Howland with wide eyes filled with fear. “Do you think he will hate me?”

Howland took Robb’s hand, the one that was applying pressure to Robb’s sore skin. He allowed him to touch his flesh, brush his finger against Howland’s nipples and drift slowly down the finger shaped bruises on his belly button to his smooth groin where he dropped the hand. Robb did not have the sense to retreat and let it rest on Lord Reed’s thigh. There was a thin layer of sweat on his skin. The moistness reminded Robb of Jon’s soaked flesh beneath his hands. He was growing hard.

“Jon has a forgiving heart when it comes to his family. If you say sorry, I’m sure he will accept your apology.” He leaned closer to Robb and removed the concerns from his heart. “What motivated your actions?”

“I…” The words could not leave Robb’s mouth. “I…” A sudden wave of entitlement washed over Robb has he remembered the lull of Jon’s sweet cunt, and the way his body squirmed around Robb’s churning fingers. Jon was his, he repeated in his mind over and over, since the day Jon’s name made way to his consciousness. “Jon is mine,” he whispered. “Jon belongs to me,” he said out loud, to support his actions to himself.

“He does,” lulled Howland, his words thickened the air as if Robb was swimming in a vat of honey. “He is my gift to you and your father. But you must earn him before you can receive him.” He rested his hand on Robb’s cock. “Do you deserve him, Robb?”

Robb shook as the chills overcame him. “I….I did not think he would be angry.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“His body wants me,” Robb revealed. “He desires me. I desire him.”

“But you deserve his supple body underneath yours? Do you think you are worthy to have his innocence sheath your cock, that you can fuck him against the walls of Winterfell and have his cunt clench around you like there was nothing more to his being than to be your whore? What warrants you to believe that Jon is meant to be by your side, sharing his wisdom and his services only to you?”

Robb was taken back by the question he had no answers to. He attempted to leap off the bed but was pulled back by Howland’s grip. Robb laid on the bed where his father planned to devour his lover, and he was helpless. He could not run away.

“Tell me, Robb. Why should I give my son to you? Someone who steals from his host after he nourished your aching body with his kindness and love?” Howland dipped his face lower so that strands of his hair touched Robb’s cheeks and he could almost taste the flowers on Howland’s breath.

“I don’t…” He panicked. “I…no,” he confessed. “I don’t deserve him…no.” A sob trailed after his revelation. Howland sighed; his disappointment in the young heir hurt more than the time Theon jabbed his wooden sword into Robb’s stomach and gave him splinters. He would do anything to rectify the regret. Howland got up from the bed and declared he would leave Robb to his own thoughts.

 “But…but I love him!” He shouted. “I would do anything to have him!”

Howland was in the middle of tying up his robe when Robb made his declaration. Howland turned around and let the tie hang loose. He walked over to him. “Anything?”

“Anything,” Robb nodded. “I won’t…I won’t hurt him again. I promise! I could not control myself because I did not expect him to be so beautiful. I will do anything to protect him. He is my brother and I love him and I will give him anything his heart desires!”

Howland returned to the bed. “What if he wanted your heart? What if all he wants is your love and respect?”

“He can have it,” Robb swore. “On my honor as a Stark, the lands of Winterfell, and may the Old Gods and the New hear me, I swear to make sure Jon wants nothing in this world.”

Howland kissed Robb’s forehead. “You are such a sweet boy. And such a good brother.”

Robb preened with pride.

“You must promise me one more thing.”

“Anything,” he repeated.

“You are your father’s son, so you will put your honor and duty above all else. But you must never, ever, on your life and on Jon’s, place it above your love for my child.”

The request was strange, but Robb found it fitting for a mother to ask. His father warned him about making vows at such young an age—no one knew where he would be a decade’s time. However, he knew that he could never hurt someone as lovely as Jon in the future, especially if he grew up as faithful and enchanting as Lord Reed.

“I promise,” Robb vowed. He saw Lord Reed relaxed in relief, and he, himself, was grateful for the opportunity to be friends again with the lord of the Neck. He asked Lord Reed, with a shy glance at his healing body, if Jon would become as beautiful as him.

 “A mother will claim all her children to be beauties, but I assure you that Jon shall be a desirable as an oasis to a marooner in Dorne.”

Robb grinned, for he would love Jon even if his skin was inflicted with greyscale or if he was missing an arm and a leg, but the thought of his delicate frame resting on his bed for years to come made him gleeful. He would encourage the envy of every Northern lord and their grandfathers and grandsons to come.

“It will not be hard for you or your father to arrange a suitable match for him,” Howland suggested, keeping his teasing audible but not so heavy Robb thought it was outside the realm of possibility. “Despite the poverty of my home, there were plenty of young men who were willing to forgo a dowry when I made my appearance at Harrenhal.”

Robb’s head snapped up at the new knowledge. He thought Howland had remained faithful to his father. Howland gently stroked the boy’s cheek. “I refused them all, of course.” Much to their chagrin, and they expressed their disapproval with threats against his maidenhood. He should have killed them. “I only had eyes for your father, even before I met him, I was his.”

Robb was enraptured by the romance. He could not allow Jon to be sold off to a man who would not appreciate him. Jon would stay with him. Robb was positive that Jon and Robb’s birth was an act of the gods hoping to recover the past through their bodies. He loved his mother, but Howland was his father’s soulmate. Jon was destined for him in the same regard.  

“I need to apologize to Jon,” Robb whispered. He repeated the sentiment to Howland out loud. He said they needed to find him before his father did, or else he would never forgive him! “Please, Lord Reed. Help me find my brother before my father brings him here, and demand I apologize. He will think my feelings of shame are an act!”

“What do you think I can do?” Howland asked with a cold stare and a vicious grin. Robb shivered, but he held the resolve of his parents when discussing family and piety.

“You know Jon is safe. I think you possess the ability to find him. I heard rumors about your…abilities.”

“What rumors?” Howland laid his body on the bed, dedicated to the comforts of his own being. He did not seem insulted by Robb’s accusation, but amused. “What do these green girls and boys from the South say about me, when they believed the moss covers my ears and the rubbing of vines are too loud to listen?”

For Jon, Robb thought as entered the cave where the gluttonous dragon lived, the one who feasted on boys’ fears and the hearts of little girls; a tongue dripping in threats and promises. He will bear any indignity and face any obstacle to receive Jon’s forgiveness.

“They call you the Witch of Winterfell,” Robb began. “They said you bewitched my mother on your last visit and made her sick. She…tried to kill herself because of you.” He corrected himself. “What I mean is, I heard them say that you casted a curse on her. And that you…you enchanted my father into loving you. They said you breathed in the soul of vixen and carried the tongue of snake, and that my father was seduced by your body.”

"What else?"

"I...I heard you were an enchanter. You possessed my father with a spirit incarnated of lust and debauchery, and use spells to control the flowers and the leaves."

"I suppose I must practice black magic as well."

Robb nodded.  

Howland tipped his head to the side. He crawled over to Robb. “Do you believe them?”

He did and he did not. “I believe your love for my father is genuine and his to you. Do you believe my love for Jon is real?”

Howland smiled a line of secrets. “I do.” He stroked Robb’s cheek and whispered in his ear, “Bring me that box over there, the one covered in bones and blue beads. It will have what you want.”

Robb dashed to the desired object. He held up the item that resembled the description and turned to Lord Reed, who nodded. Lord Reed opened the box and revealed an etui with a pinch’s worth of black needles. They were the smallest needles he had ever seen but fit well within Howland’s fingers.

“Give me your hand, Robb.”

Robb did not hesitate to show his palm.

Howland pricked his pointer with one of them, and then used the same device to piece his own skin. Howland pressed the injured parties together and then sucked on the mixture. He whispered the language made of nymphs and satyrs, and kissed Robb on the lips.

Robb witnessed Jon cradled by a cloak of red leaves burning underneath the moonlight sky where birds made of stars dropped onto his skin whenever a shiver rolled over his body. Jon’s face was covered with black streaks, a trail of teardrops representing Robb’s betrayal against his being. A pool separated them, and whenever Robb attempted to cross, a blue fish jumped out of the steam and attempted to bite off his toes. Robb prevailed in spite of such obstacle, and a raven the size of his body dashed forward with the branches of a weirwood following him.

The vision ended. When reality invaded the realms of fantasy and Robb retreated to his home, he took a step back, horrified by the sight. Howland was amused. He asked Robb if everything was alright and before he could answer, perhaps question the sorcery, Ned Stark entered the room.

“I can’t find him. I am calling the guards. Robb, I told you to go to your room. I will deal with you later—”

“I know where he is,” Robb whispered. His body was shivering from the aftershocks. He repeated his statement again, out loud. “I know where Jon is.” He left the room in a hurry, and spared no glance to his father and his lover.

Ned was too stunned to give chase. He turned to Howland who sucked his finger under a guile of innocence. “All is well,” he promised his lord. “Come to bed with me, and tomorrow we shall see our sons and daughters again in feast."

"Jon--"

"Robb will find him. He will repent for his sins, but not tonight.”

“Has Robb revealed his indiscretions?”

Howland hummed. “No, you raised a boy who is willful, but not a fool, though. He knows better than to repeat his mistakes.” He returned to his undressed state by removing his robe. “His heart is heavy after his sins. He will beg Jon for forgiveness.”

“You are rather forgiving.” Ned narrowed his eyes, for their time together had made him disillusioned with the existence of Howland’s mercy. “Where is Jon?”  

“Jon is where he needs to be, and I bear no ill will towards my son’s disappearance.” He paused. “It is Robb’s impulses that I find issue with.” Howland knew none of the details but he can infer that Robb took an invitation that Jon was not ready to give—he would press Jon for more information later. “But after tonight, Robb understands that not even you, Lord Stark, can save him from my wrath if he harms our child again.”

Robb dashed to the godswoods. The song of night skies and snowdrops took him to the weirwood tree where Jon rested, curled up beside a stone with the grass along the pool tickling him. Robb touched his cheek and pulled back. There were ice blades warmer that Jon’s flesh. In a flurry, he undid his fur cloak and wrapped it around his brother. When Jon did not wake, Robb was frozen in fear. He tried shaking him. Then, his younger brother let out a puff of breath to prove his vitality, and Robb was relived. He carried Jon on his back to their bedroom. The guards saw them. One warned him not to play so late at night—one of them could have gotten hurt.

Back in their den, Robb wrapped Jon’s body in all the furs and cloaks he could find. He took some out of his own room next door. Soon, the whimpers of frost turned into happy purrs. Content with his new surroundings, Jon opened his eyes and saw Robb bustling about, contemplating if he should grab a robe from the wardrobe or order the servants to bring another.

“What are you doing?” Jon asked. He yawned and fought the shutting of his lids. They were so heavy.

“I am getting you warm. You were sleeping in the godswoods. You might have gotten a fever.” Robb could not help himself. “That was stupid. You should have returned to your room.”

“I was angry at you. You laid your hands on me when I did not ask you to. Mother says that you can’t do that.”

“You’re my little brother,” Robb muttered. He should be able to do what he wanted. Nonetheless, he returned the robe to the hanger. He walked towards Jon who tried to move but could only squirm in his cocoon of wool and fur. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I did not mean to scare you. Since I’ve learned about your existence, your companionship is the only thing that can provide me joy. I swore to your mother and I swear to you, I will only ever act in your own wellbeing. I want us to be confidents, for you to whisper your secrets in my ear while grasping my hands for support. I want to confide my love in you. You matter more than the skies and the lakes and the earth where wolves roam.”  

Jon was moved by the confession, for he was happy Robb loved him so desperately. Jon cared for Robb as well, and understood that he could not spoil him with forgiveness. “I will not accept your apology today,” Jon replied. “For I am still angry with you.” Tomorrow, maybe.

Robb nodded. He was disappointed by the lack of clemency, but agreed to his sentence. Tomorrow, he would pick flowers for Jon, and ask Gage to make him lemon cakes or orange cream. He moved to return to his own room.

“Wait!”

Robb stopped.

Jon was still covered in blankets. He rolled to his side and unraveled his covers. “Tonight is very cold.” He blushed a rose red. “You’re already here and we…We could warm each other up…if you are so inclined to spending time with me…”

“Yes!” Robb agreed. He practically ripped off his shirt and kept only his pants. The eagerness turned his rosy glow into a red rash. He thought of protesting but Robb was already unwrapping Jon like a present from the gods. He enveloped his arms around Jon’s small frame and kept him close to snuggle. Jon’s reflex was to curl like a kitten in his arms. Despite being upset, he enjoyed Robb’s protective stance around him; the makeshift enclosure he formed to keep their bond steady. Robb wondered if he should suggest undressing but understood that was boundary too great for him to cross.  

Before they went to sleep, Robb slipped his hands underneath Jon’s shirt and tried not to pinch those adorable tits. His fingers kept snapping like a crab when they went near his chest. He resolved to massage Jon’s skin while they slept—he figured the gentle rubs would lull Jon to sleep. After a few minutes, Jon turned around so that they were face to face. Robb was worried about the upcoming reprimand, but instead received a larger armful of Jon. Jon was sound asleep. His lips were dry and rested on Robb’s chest.

Robb resisted kissing him. He imagined the first time their lips would touch to be when they were both awake. Jon would have his eyes closed and his lips would be barely parted, puckered and pink.  Instead, he maneuvered one of Jon’s legs around Robb’s hips and kept a firm grasp on his backside. He had the prettiest hole if Robb remembered correctly. He wondered if it would be as wet if he wasn’t in the water.

When Jon woke up the next morning, he could not comprehend the reason behind his loose bones and delight that made his body sing. Robb was by his side, cradling his body like gold. He felt sticky. He turned around to inspect the cause, but ended up awakening Robb who removed their limbs from their knotted embrace. He asked why Jon chose to woke up at such an ungodly hour to which Jon responded by turning on his stomach and flicking his feet up and down in a playful manner.

“I like waking up early. It’s the only time in the world where a person can be alone.”

Robb stared at the way Jon’s legs seemed to bounce on the air. He remembered them wrapped around him yesterday, and wondered what else he could manipulate to have those beautiful bowlegs against him again. “You like being alone?”

“I like having my own privacy,” Jon confessed. “In the Neck, there’s always someone watching. That’s why we can keep secrets from the world but never each other.”

Robb got up. “Winterfell is full of places to collect your thoughts, Jon! You’ll love it here!”

“I hope so.” Jon got on his hands and knees and crawled over to Robb. “If you behave for the rest of the week, I’ll tell father I want to stay.”

“I thought you were always going to stay?”

Jon shook his head. “Father gave me the option to leave if I do not like it here.”

Robb stilled. That was news to him. His father told him that Jon was staying with him until he finished adulthood. The answer was vague, and so when he asked, Lord Stark merely replied that he wanted to secure a good future for Jon in case of his death. Maester Luwin informed him that meant marriage, as well as a number of things, but Robb brushed the idea off. Jon would not be marrying anybody until Robb was old enough to have a say in the decision.

“I’m sorry,” Robb told him again. “It is tomorrow already. Do you forgive me now?”

“What world do you live in that forgiveness is granted upon request?”

“The world in which I am the Stark heir.”

Jon tried not to laugh. “You cannot gain forgiveness with time and demand. It needs to be earned.”

Jon needed to be earned. Forgiveness needed to be earned. People kept telling him that, but they fail to mention what he needed to do to acquire the income.

Robb pulled Jon on top of him. He squealed in surprise. “Robb!”

“Forgive me, and I’ll take such good care of you,” Robb swore. He tightened his grip around him and felt his breath on his neck. “Every year Lord Manderly sends us gifts from the ports, ceramics with decorations of birds and flowers from the Vale, silks from Volantis, citruses as big as your head, silver cuffs and rings from their mines. The Umbers give us wool as thick as a brick, imagine a sheep as fluffy as a cloud on your shoulders, and the ironwood given to us by the Forrester make the finest furniture in the land.” He stroked Jon’s backside. “Stay with me and you will want nothing.”

Jon maneuver himself so that he faced Robb, who rested underneath him. “You are forgetting, Robb, you are not Lord Stark yet.”

“Yet,” Robb repeated. “But I will be. And when I am Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, it will be forbidden for anybody to make you cry.” He hesitated. “Even me.”

Jon stared at him for the longest time, perhaps measuring the strength of his resolve through the endurance of his gaze. Then he smiled, and thanked him. “But I still don’t forgive you,” he stated before kissing Robb on the cheek and racing away from him.

Robb was taken back by the declaration. He got up and saw Jon rummaging through his wardrobe, completely in awe of the new items. Some were Sansa’s secondhand wears, feminine articles that Arya despised and would not take for herself. Others belonged to his late aunt, and were already dusted for freshness. A few were new. Robb remembered his father being in a rush to get to the Neck, and asked Sansa to find a few pieces she thought her little brother would like. Sansa could not defy her father, and would hold to that excuse when asked about her loyalties. Robb knew she enjoyed the activity—she loved looking through the silks and patterned wool, muttering to herself about what her brother would look good in. She only knew his coloring. He remembered her crying in her room. “What if he hates what I picked out? What if he thinks I have no taste?” There was a shawl knitted in her room that Sansa could not bear to give to her older brother, because she thought it was too silly with its yarn flowers and button accents.

Jon snapped him out his thoughts by asking if a dress would be too much for breakfast. “I’ve always wanted to wear one—my mother has a few of them from his southern travels. Long and flowy cottons in blue, grey, and green.  I tried them on but they didn’t fit.”

Robb supposed it would be too dirty and inconvenient to dress like Sansa in the Neck, with all the mud and lizard lions to outrun. Jon asked if male omegas wore dresses in Winterfell.

“The ones who work in the domestic sphere sometimes do. I’ve seen others wear them for special occasions. Nothing too extravagant, not like the southerners in the Reach or the Crownlands.”

“Oh.” Jon sounded disappointed. He put the dress back and looked for something subtle. Robb quickly rectify his mistake.

“But you can wear anything you wish! I’m sure you’ll look lovely in a dress.”

Jon looked unconvinced. “I think I’ll wear pants today. I don’t want to stand out right now. The people here must find me odd.”

Robb denied the notion. “You are beautiful, Jon. It is only fair that you wear worthy of your being!” He thought for a second, and then decided on another approach. “Besides, father has gotten you all these pretty dresses and skirts. Sansa picked some of them out as well. You will only disappoint them if you arrive in your usual wears. They will think you didn’t like them.”

The suggestion surprised Jon. He would hate to disappoint his father and new sister. He took out a charcoal, cotton gown, perfect for a morning tea, and admired the beading on the front. He took another one out, a smoky blue dress, the color of Prussian cat, and traced his hands over the long sleeves. He never wore anything so many layers and fluff. 

“Which one do you prefer?” he asked.

“The blue one used to be Sansa’s. I think she’ll appreciate your shared tastes.”

Jon grinned, and worked to get undressed. Before he could undo his pants, he spared a suspicious glance towards Robb who was staring.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Turn around. You can’t control yourself.”

“I teased you once!”

“You’ve only known me for one day! Besides, you’re being punished,” Jon protested. “Turn around.”

Robb grumbled something indistinguishable, but did as commanded. “What else will my punishment entail?”

Jon thought for a moment. “We will not be taking any baths together until you are forgiven. And when you show me around Winterfell, you need to take my brother and sister with us. They’ll be our chaperones.”

“A chaperone?” They were not children!

“Father said I need to protect my chastity against deviants,” Jon impishly revealed. He went back to dressing himself, repeating his earlier command for privacy. “Which reminds me, you are no longer allowed to touch me.”

Robb groaned with the drama of an actress. He fell back onto the sheets in petulance. “Was that why you were allowed me to sleep with you? So that the torture was worst now that I’ve had a taste?”

“Stop the theatrics,” Jon instructed. He continued dressing himself.

When Jon was not paying attention, he sneaked another peek at Jon’s fair skin and the curve of the ass he played with all night. Jon threw on the dress and asked for Robb’s opinion. Robb turned away and asked with faux belligerence if he was allowed to look.

“Of course,” Jon stated, amused by the behavior. He walked over to Robb, and revealed his new garment. The color looked marvelous on his body, made his skin glow like the moon floating on a pool. The top was a bit tight, but the pressure made Jon’s chest come together, creating an alluring curve.

“You’re stunning,” Robb whispered in awe. Jon grinned and lent out his hand. Robb took it and pulled himself up, tipping Jon forward with his weight. Robb caught him. He basked in joy at the weight in his arms. He let go after a few moments of struggles from Jon’s part.

Jon shoved him away, pouted his pretty, pretty lips, and told Robb to get dressed. Before he left for his room, he grabbed Jon’s arm. “Wait for me,” Robb requested.

Jon bit down the nervous quiver in his lips, before nodding.

“Robb?”

Robb turned around.

“I still get to touch you.”

They were the last to arrive at the breakfast table. Robb kept a firm grasp around Jon’s waist and asked if he wanted to sit on his lap. Jon giggled and ran to his father’s side instead. He happily placed his bottom on his father’s thighs. Robb frowned and turned away. He controlled himself from grumbling. He would rather not alert his father’s annoyance.

“I see you two made up,” noted Ned, who was cutting up his son’s sausage link.

Jon nodded. He bit the piece and chirped in happiness. “What creature is this?”

“Pork.”

Jon stared.

“That is a pig,” Howland stated. “You saw them on the journey, when we visited that tavern near the bushes shaped like rabbits. Do you remember?”

“The pink creatures!”

“Yes," Howland smiled. "They’re very delicious. A lot of fat so they’re good to eat for the winter. You’ll see them when you visit the livestock.”

Jon remained in awe. “Dry lands are incredible. You can breed your own meat and always have food at hand. And your pelts are so soft and warm. Not rough like lizard leather, or as thin as leaf skin.”

Howland and Ned shared a smile, and the older man placed an affectionately stroked his son’s hair. Catelyn watched them with no small amount of irritation. It took all her strength to come to breakfast. She would not have Howland chase her out of her routines, nor would she allow the bastard to make her feel unwelcome. She narrowed her eyes at his choice of clothing.

“Is that Sansa’s dress?”

Sansa picked her head up to stare. Indeed, her mother was correct in her assessment. Jon was wearing her dress, a plain, dainty number with misshaped blossoms on the hem, and a blue that lost its original color. She outgrew it years ago and had wanted to give it to Arya, who could not sew to save her life. Arya hated its girlishness, though, and hated its poofy nature with all the layers and waves.

Jon did not share her sentiments. He played with the bottom for a bit and grinned, so happily one might think she presented him with silks embedded with diamonds. “I really like it. I hope you’re not upset I’ve taken your dress.”

Catelyn turned her gaze on her oldest daughter. Sansa looked down at her plate to avoid either person’s stare. “It’s fine. I have no purpose for it anymore. It doesn’t fit.”

“Thank you, Sansa!” Jon cheerful replied made Sansa blush. She would not say that she was happy he enjoyed her gift, for it was old and a hundred times worn—not a worthy gift in the slightest. She thought, at best, he would tell her it was nice and never wear it. The both resumed their meal. With the crisis averted, Howland continued to talk to Arya, who sat beside Howland, listening to him talk about skinning snakes and sucking on their flesh.

“What do snakes taste like?”

“Well after you drain the blood and cook the meat, the texture reminds me of chicken, a bit stringier and with more bones. The taste, however, is mild—like a light fish. Depending on the breed, you might be able to taste something sweet as sea urchins or as salty as pork."

Arya grinned. “If I go to the Neck will you capture some for me?”

Catelyn was about to dismiss the possibility of her traveling to that godforsaken environment. Howland countered her request with a suggestion of his own. “If you go to the Neck, I will teach you how to hunt and cook them yourself. A girl should know how to hold a spear. My children were half your age when they held their first gig.”

Arya almost shrieked in delight. She told Howland she could not wait until she was old enough to travel South. She heard Greywater Watch moved every second of the days and nights, and there were flowers bigger than her in the swamps. She was so excited she could barely breathe.

Bran shared the same sentiment for an entirely different reason. He was snuggled between two alphas who took turns feeding him like a doll. They kept fighting on who got to keep him in their laps so they agreed to share him.

“Would you like some more sausage, Bran?” Meera held up another piece.

Bran shook his head.

“He is probably too full. You overfed him. Here, Bran, have some milk.” Jojen held the cup to his lips.

Bran took a sip and choked a little when it went the wrong way.

“You gave him too much! He can’t breathe!”

Bran let Meera wipe away the dribble running down his cheek.

Jojen took out some candy in his pocket. He said it would cure his stomachache and that his sister would never be so mindful to his wellbeing. Meera denied such notions, going so far to say that Bran would never go hungry because she knew how to hunt. Bran took the candy, and thanked the both of them.

They would have bickered forever if Benjen did not stop their nonsensical behavior. “Bran is only three. He can barely form sentences let alone declare his love for his favorite cousin. Stop it.”

Both of them grumbled and soften their touches with Bran. They continued to kiss and stroke his skin throughout the meal. Despite the rough treatment, Bran basked in the attention. He was worried that when Jon came, he would lose the special treatment he received as Lord Stark’s male omega. The thought never crossed his mind with all the love he received from his cousins. He wished they could stay forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. It took way too long to write a chapter this short. I can't wait to write the next chapter. When I was writing this, all I could think was: I got to get to the next chapter. I can only get to the next chapter once I finished this chapter. Let's do this.  
> 2\. Four years of Catholic school made me obsess with finding loopholes in religion. In the ASOIAF, the old gods frowned against bastardy as well as the new gods. So I wondered about that. The Old Faith was originated by the children of the forest. What did they consider to be marriage? What did they consider to be bastards, considering they didn’t have family names? I made the artistic leap that ‘bastardy’ was a poor translation by the First Men of ‘don’t abandon your children, you assholes’—not necessarily children out of wedlock.  
> 3\. I have a thing for boys in pretty dresses.


	4. Chapter 4

 Before they left for the crypts, Howland pulled Jon and Meera’s hair back with ribbons. Jon received a black strip of silk that made Robb swoon. He reached out to touch him, but was met with a discrete swat. Jon covered his mouth when he saw Robb’s shocked expression. The boy growled and turned away, utterly affronted by the action. Jon tried not to laugh at his older brother. Thankfully, the boy had the sense not to cause a scene. Following his rejection, Jon hopped over to his father. Lord Stark complied to his cry for attention by giving him a kiss on top of curly hair and telling him that he was as lovely as his mother. It was the highest regard he could give anyone.

For Meera, Howland granted her a strip of green velvet that matched her eyes. She asked Bran if she was pretty, and he giggled. He called her “beautiful” with his own jumbled pronunciation. The act made Jojen jealous, and he responded by demanding a ribbon for himself.

“No!” Meera whined. She turned to her parents. “Mother! Father! Don’t give him one! He’s only doing it to spite me!”

“Not true! I want to be pretty, too!” Jojen protested. He turned to Bran and said, “I want to look nice for Bran.”

Meera clenched her fist. Her brother was the only person who could upset her. “Your hair is not even long enough to use one!”

Jojen’s resolve did not falter. He said that he would “wear it around his neck” and asked Bran if he thought it was a good idea. Meera countered that he would look stupid. The toddler, so overwhelmed by the alphas’ furies, scampered off to his mother’s arms. The woman glared. She ordered the maid beside her to get a ribbon for Jojen. Ned certainty bought enough for Howland’s beloved children that they could afford to share. Bran shivered, and she whispered a comforting phrase to keep him calm.

“Septa Mordane is in the next room having her lunch. She always has a few on hand.” Then, Catelyn turned to the youngest Reeds.  “I would ask you two to cease your belligerence. I will not allow for any alpha posturing to upset my son.”

Jojen and Meera had the decency to look ashamed. Howland wondered if their fighting had something to do with them being alphas—they never had any competition with Jon—or if it was a result of Bran’s proximity. While neither of them were close to rutting, the two have been quite taken with the boy since their arrival. Though, Howland was worried about whether this would affect their relationship in the future, he was soon cleared of his concerns.

The serving girl who was given the order hesitated to move. Though it was a mere moment, Howland witnessed the brief disturbance in her eyes when she casted her gaze on top of Jojen, and her mouth twitched the slightest bit downwards. He had seen a familiar reaction from many people—from those heretics that worshipped knighted icons and human gods, to the Northerners who valued warriors bearing steel instead of the cleverness of a wide eyed archer. 

“Is there something the matter?” Howland insinuated. 

The girl was alarmed. “No, milord.”

“Then why do you not move?”

The girl looked to Lady Stark for assistance, but was met with a raised eyebrow. “Is there a problem?” Lady Catelyn had her hands full with a babe in one arm and toddler underneath the other. She did not need a reminder of how unmotivated the staff had become to her demands, and she did not need proof of her own loyalists’ incompetence.

“No, milady. I simply thought that because Jojen was an alpha boy, he would be…”

“What would he be?” Howland’s charm slipped away from him as towers of defense arrived in their stead. “He is an alpha, like my daughter. And he is a boy, like my son. Why is he not allowed to dress like his brother and sister? What is strange about that?”

The girl squeaked a bit. She was very new; a transfer from Deepwood Motte. “I-I apologize. I will get the ribbon.” She walked past by Howland who grabbed her wrist before she could escape.

“Do you disapprove of the way I raise my son?”

“No, milord!” But she did, and the disgust that twinkled in her eyes was as clear as crystal to Howland. “It’s just that in the North, alpha men do not…well…such things are…” She was on the verge of tears. “Ribbons are for omegas, milord. And girls. Male alphas don’t wear them here.”

Howland tightened his grip. “Why does that matter?”

The girl struggled to find the words. Her wrist hurt. “Because…it is known that …strange proclivities are to occur if they engage in such behaviors, milord.”

The chill that presented itself earlier now invaded the entire room. No one but Ned noticed Benjen’s grimace. His face tightened and his wrinkles dug as deep as ditches when such proclivities were mentioned. Everyone was aware, however, that the offense would not go untouched by Howland. The fate of the girl would not end in a field of daisies but by a pile of worms.

“Is that so?” he asked. “You were hesitant to give my son a ribbon, the nephew of your lord and the possible heir of the Neck, because you were afraid that he would be infected with such afflictions?”

The girl attempted to respond, but couldn’t. Her throat filled with her own saliva. The liquid clogged into a sensation as thick as mud, and it tasted like death in her mouth. She could not speak. She could not cry for help. Ned hissed at Howland that the girl meant no harm. “She is simply repeating what she has heard.”

Howland did not care. He asked the girl, “Tell me again about the dangers of a ribbon? Tell me why I should fear it?”

The girl started coughing. Rickon wailed, for his mother was shaking so much that she could do nothing else. In terror, she got to her feet and announced her departure. She took Rickon in her arms and grabbed Sansa’s wrist, whose eyes were wide and rightfully terrified. She tried to take Bran away but he was enraptured by the scene. He refused to move. He was staring off someplace, but his attention was not on the serving girl, or Howland. The fact served as a factor to her leaving without him. Howland would never hurt Ned’s children, she reassured herself, he was safe there.

Jojen interrupted the girl’s unfortunate experience by retracting his desire. He denied ever wanting the ribbon. “I only wanted one because Meera had one,” he confessed, confirming Meera’s earlier claim. “I don’t like ribbons.”

Howland did not acknowledge him. He held his grip on the girl’s wrist. She was bound to bruise tomorrow, if her lungs did not give out. Jojen pleaded with his mother. “Mother, I don’t want it.” Jojen saw a trail of dead bodies in his dream, and he knew his mother would be involved in the graveyard’s construction. He did not want this premonition to come true. “Mother,” Jojen pleaded. He looked to his favorite cousin, whose eyes were focused on something in the air. Jojen thought it was curious that he would stare at dust in the air than the choking woman. Unless, he could see the sparks of green and gold, but that was impossible. It was one thing to see the results of magic, but another to witness the actual force.

Jojen was taken back when the possibility hit him. No, Jojen thought, that would make Bran a…. “Mother,” he petitioned again, with more force this time around. “Mother, Bran is watching.” The address of outsiders made Howland’s focus falter, and the girl was released from his hold. She gasped for any pockets of air she could saver. Howland let go of the girl’s hand and told her to leaven and make herself useful. She was no more than dressing on the wall at this point. The girl all but ran out, and from afar, they could hear her bursting into tears. She would moan about this for days’ end.

Meera, heavy with concern, abandoned her previous stance. She undid the ribbon in her hair and tied it around Jojen’s neck. Jojen repeated his sentiment. “I don’t want it.”

“Neither do I,” she lied. She made a perfect bow. “There, now you can be pretty. Right, Bran?”

Bran, empathetic to the change in temperament, peeked over at Jojen’s neck. He saw the emerald adorned on Jojen’s skin and smiled. “Pretty,” he told them. He reached out to touch the velvet on Jojen’s neck and giggled at the softness. He acted as if he never saw the entire incident.

Jojen took his hand and kissed his fingers. “Thank you, Bran. You’re very pretty as well.” He turned to his sister and kissed her. “And Meera is the prettiest.”

Meera grinned. “Thank you—ooh!”

Jon sprung out of his father’s arms and tackled his little sister to the ground. While she protested the rough treatment with threats and complaints, Jon grabbed her hair. She tried to fight him off but he was bigger than her and stronger. She wondered why her mother and father did not stop him until she felt her hair being held back by a familiar object.

“You can have my ribbon!” Jon offered. He moved over to lie on his back, the cold of the dining room floor was unwelcoming, but he liked it better than sitting after a fight. Meera was shocked, but recovered quickly with giggles of her own. She told him he should have just given to her, to which he pointedly responded that she would have never taken it if it was not forced upon her.

The puppy pile grew when Jojen walked over, Bran in hand to lie with his older siblings. Bran eyes were wide and curious, for he was never allowed to lie down on the kitchen floor! It was too dirty. As if reading his thoughts, Jojen promised that Bran would not get dirty because he would be lying on top of him. Bran wanted to refuse, but then Arya, bold and vivacious Arya, jumped into the pack in hopes of joining their bonding moment. Bran was dragged alongside her and all together, on the floor, rested a group of children, cuddling like feral dogs. Theon called them all childish, but he sat beside Robb who was looking at them with definite envy. Robb remembered what Jon said, and he decided to stay put. He met Jon’s eye and the boy looked impressed. He moaned a little and the noise rose Robb’s hackles. He then complained that Meera jabbed him in the stomach and giggled when Robb glared.

Ned would have words with all of them at this point, but Howland was still fuming. Benjen reached Lord Reed before Ned did. He comforted Howland by muttering reassurances of his own. “The girl meant no harm,” and “That’s just the way the world is.”

Howland lashed out of him. “So I should just allow her to continue her ignorance? What if my son hears such foolishness? What about his happiness then?” He growled at him. “You of all people should not how unacceptable it is, to have those values forced upon a child.”

To their credit, they spoke in hisses and whispers, as husbands and wives do for the sake of their children. Ned found Jojen’s envy contagious. Ned was reminded that Benjen was Howland’s husband. True, they stopped sharing a bed with each other, but they would always have their children, and they would share the Neck for years to come. Benjen learned secrets in his time there, secrets that outsiders like Ned could never be privy to.

Ned was shameful of his resentment. He brought it upon himself when he accepted Lord Tully’s proposal, and he had no right to clench his fist whenever Meera or Jojen called Benjen ‘father.’ He had no reason to be envious of Benjen and Howland. These were the two people in the world whose love for him was paramount to any other.

He went forward to them and announced that they should head to the crypts. They have a long day ahead of them. He wanted to show the children the glass gardens afterwards, and then the godswoods. He also discussed taking them to the hot springs if they had time. Benjen gave Howland a hopeful look. Ned finally soothed the dragon by declaring he would talk to the maids about the issue, as well as any who served under him that such talk was not allowed. He promised Howland and kissed his hands—an act of fidelity reserved for a king.

Howland agreed. He got up and collected his children. He asked if all of them were ready for the tour and they chimed in agreement. Arya grabbed Jon’s hand and hauled him towards their location, only slowing down when commanded. Meera and Jojen grasped onto Bran’s little fingers, each other them by his side.  Robb and Theon were standing behind them. Theon went along for the sake of not being abandoned. Ned asked Ser Cassel to pardon his son from his lessons, and that meant Theon would be left alone. He did not like how the alphas treated him—like a traitor, or worst, a piece of meat. They wrestled with him too personally for someone of his standing. Theon was the son of a high lord! He was supposed to marry well and give birth to a bunch of pretty babes! Not wallow in their pig shit.

Down below, the crypts were musty with history, and dusty with death. The Reeds found the place fascinating. They had traveled a respectable deal away from their parents, with Robb and Theon acting as guardians. Jon listened as his Stark sister regaled the history of the location, and discussed how all the Starks were buried in here.

“What do you do to your people when they die?” asked Arya, who was surprised by the utter shock on Meera and Jojen’s faces as they touched the ground and listened to the dead rumble.

“We bury them underneath trees, and let their bodies feed the earth,” answered Jojen. “We don’t put them in boxes.”

“They are called tombs,” Meera corrected. “But no…we do not have so much fanfare for the deceased. We celebrate their parting into the lands. This is so strange!”

Arya did not voice her astonishment. Nonetheless, she began to tell stories about her favorite relatives. Jon listened intently. These were his ancestors aas well. They went further into the tunnels for more recent deaths, and landed upon Lady Lyanna, their father’s sister. Jon touched her tomb, and felt a warmth pass through him. Arya told them that either she or Sansa would have been given her namesake, but it made her father sad whenever he was reminded of her.  

“She’s the woman who introduced our fathers to mother,” Meera stated. “Father said that Rhaegar Targaryean tricked her into following him, and he went mad, and caused a war over her. She couldn’t escape because she was with child.”

The Starks taken back by the revelation. Their father never told them that part of the story! Even Greyjoy was intrigued, for he was taking lessons with Maester Luwin, and the old man never mentioned that part of the rebellion. “What happened?” Arya asked. She could only count a handful of first cousins in existence, but none with dragon’s blood.

“He died,” Jon revealed. His voice cold and distant. “Lyanna died in childbirth, and the child was a stillborn. The body was never found. Father said he disappeared into thin air.” Hatred flushed through him whenever he thought about Lyanna’s deceased babe. He thought about Robert Baratheon, and how his father always told him it was for the best that the child left this world, for the king would have had him slaughtered. His mother hated talking about the war, and refused to give details when asked. His father was equally reluctant, but allowed himself to be pushed for information. 

Robb saw his change in demeanor, and gently suggested they return to their grandparents’ tomb. Their parents awaited there. While they walked, Robb walked beside Jon, and grabbed his dress. He pulled the younger boy towards him and waited for their siblings and Theon to be out of sight. Jon asked what he was planning, and the boy rose to his own defense.

“I can tell you’re upset, but…I was told by my father that my Aunt Lyanna was one of the kindest and bravest people he knew. She loved her family very much, and I’m sure…I’m sure that her son is well taken care of by the old gods because of it.”

Jon stared at him. Robb was sure he had said something foolish but then Jon kissed him for his kind words. “My mother said the same. I hope they are happy together.” He left when Robb was too stunned to speak. When he recovered, he made a note of his own accomplishment.

Kind words, he thought, after Jon was sad made him happy. A happy Jon gave him kisses.

The adults paid their respects in another corner of the crypt. Benjen was especially emotional in the presence of his mother, whose tomb stood as high as their father. She was a Stark in blood and in marriage, and was a Northern fundamentalist in the highest regard. She loathed the South. Before Ned's fostering, she took him and his older brother to visit their grandmother in the mountains. For weeks, Benjen asked her “when are we coming home?” to which she replied “soon” but refused to give a time. He had no idea that his father did not sanction the visit; not until Lord Rickard Stark arrived with a fleet of guards to take them home and the Flints gathered up their men in preparation of warfare. The mountain dwellers were loyal to the Starks, but, in the words of Torghen Flint, “Lady Lyarra is as much a Stark as you, my lord.”

From afar, Ned heard the scampering of little footsteps. He was grateful for the interruption; the memory of what happened afterwards was almost as painful to bare as Lyanna’s death.

They traveled to the glass gardens afterwards, where all of the Neck inhabitants were given bits and pieces of fresh fruits and vegetables. Unlike the younger kids who abhorred the presents of carrots and cabbages, the Reeds were fascinated by plants that could grow underneath the ground. The head gardener took one look at Jon and his eyes teared up. He had been employed with the Starks for over thirty years—about the same time Ned was born. He reached out to Jon and the boy, after some prodding from his mother, took his hand. He was led to string of bushes filled with blue winter roses. Only a few had bloomed, but he felt compelled to pick them for him. Jon giggled and reached in for a kiss. The man, who was old and fatherless, was thankful for the Stark’s affection.

A laurel of flowers on his head and a belly full of goods, Jon skipped out of the glass gardens. The boy caught more than a few stares by the residents. Ned reassured his son that it was because of his resemblance to Lyanna, but he was aware of that Jon’s inclination towards pretty things would cause a few questionable looks. Regardless of the negative reception, he enjoyed the sight of his son so full of spring and step.

He stopped by Mikken’s place. The man dropped the red steel into the water, and the hiss caused Jon to jump. Robb laughed at his alarmed expression. He said that their master of arms would teach him how to fight while he was here. They would train together. Jon nodded and said goodbye to the kind blacksmith. The man’s omega promised to make him the loveliest sword when he was ready to bare steel. Jon thanked him.

They made rounds throughout Winterfell. Tomorrow, Ned promised that they would visit the animals, and perhaps learn how to ride horses or go hunting. They had yet to meet the kennel master, Farlan, or the master of horses, Hullen. Meera asked if she would be allowed to ride, and her uncle complied to her wishes. He told her he would spare no expense for the children of Howland and his beloved brother. Howland laughed, for such an offer could only be made to children of the Neck, who knew so little of material goods.

At the end of their tour, they visited the godswoods. Meera, Jojen and Jon joined their mother in prayer. Robb was encouraged to participate when he realized he could be seated beside Jon during the act. When no one was looking, he was able to admire Jon’s beauty without the suggestion of perversion. Jon was enchanting. Robb could not help but admire the length of his lashes or the purse of his lips in devotion. When Jon awoke from his prayer, he glanced over at Robb, who looked away. He tried his best to look concentrated in prayer while Jon inspected him.

Afterwards, they all returned to the main tower, and Ned gave the order to run a few baths for the children. They would not be enjoying the hot springs today. Most of the children were disappointed, except for Jon who glanced over at Robb in suspicion. The boy turned away and huffed. Jon still hadn’t forgiven him.

Benjen left Howland and Ned alone to enjoy their bath. He claimed his respects to his mother was unfinished. The comment unnerved Ned. Though he believed his discomfort went unnoticed, such was not the case when he and his lover were linked together in the tub.

“You never speak about your mother,” Howland commented. He laid his back on top of him and his head rested on top of Ned’s chest. “I know you were very young when you left for the Eyrie, but I doubt you were much older than Benjen when she died. He cannot stop speaking of her.”

Of course not, Ned thought. Benjen was her favorite child.

“My father and mother had a…tumultuous relationship.” That was an understatement. He tried to rectify his claim. “I heard they loved each other in their youth.” From Old Nan, he heard great tales about their romance. His mother was not a beauty, but as a young woman, she was highly admired for her wit and worldliness. She used to join her father, the legendary Wandering Wolf, on his travels. They said that even in the face of mercenaries, she did not flinch or falter. She demanded nothing, and pulled her weight despite being the daughter of one of their renown fighters. It was after witnessing her father's demise by a treachery that caused her to hate the southerners. She relocated to the mountains, and even served as the advisor for Lord Flint.

“I was told that when my father professed his love to her, my grandmother would not allow it. She said that their union must first be honored by the gods. When he came to visit her home, she set forth a hound and a mountain lion as his challengers.”

Howland turned to him in excitement. “And he succeeded?”

Ned nodded. “So I have been told.” He did not know if he still believed the story, but he found it a pleasant tale to recite to his lover. “He stabbed the lion in its heart with his sword, and leashed the hound with a rope and strangled it.  Then, he presented the pelt to my mother, and asked for her hand in marriage. She accepted.”

Howland rose so that he was facing Ned. Their cocks touched when Howland seated himself on Ned's lap. Some of the water spilled over the tub. Howland cradled Ned’s face in his hands. “What happened to them?”

Ned sighed. He kissed Howland’s chest and tried not to lose himself in the downward spiral of lost love. He never told anybody what he witnessed. The notion was forbidden as the members of their generation sunk to the ground.

“My mother hated the south. When she was a child, she witnessed her father and his men killed by southerners who did not wish to pay him for his services.” Howland knew that Ned’s grandfather served the Second Sons. Everyone knew about it. Though it served as a stain on the Stark name, Ned never shielded his lineage from anybody. “When she learned I was to be fostered in the Eyrie, she was enraged. She took me and my brother to the mountains. She told us that our grandmother was sick so we needed to take care of her. We left in the dead of night and disguised ourselves as peasants.” Ned held onto Howland a bit tighter. “Lord Flint was kind. He offered us a home for as long as we wished. He even suggested my mother take a new name and he would grant her farmlands for her livelihood.” Ned shook his head. “But we could not hide forever. One of the men recognized us, and immediately informed my father. He came to the mountains to take us back. When he threatened to have Lord Flint beheaded for treachery, my mother submitted on the condition that no one be punished for her actions.”

Howland understood that he was not given the true story. “You can tell me anything, my love. I hold no judgements. I tell no secrets.” His eyes were full of sorrow. “You’ve supported so many lives for too long. You deserve your own peace.”

The gentleness was almost enough to make Ned cry. “When we arrived home, my brother and I were sent to our rooms. But I wished to comfort my mother, who cried the entire trip. She was always so brave—so I waited for her. I heard them fighting and hid under their bed. They fought so intensely. Then,” Ned shut his eyes and forced himself to remember what he saw. “He hit her. He’d never done that before. For as long as I’ve known them, he always cherished my mother. Before he could apologize, my mother told him she had enough. She would leave him, and so he hit her again. She tried to escape his wrath, and they ended up wrestling on the floor. He ripped off her clothes,” Ned choked. He splashed the water around and felt the world close on him. Howland wrapped his arms around him and held him close.

“It’s alright. I’m sorry to have made you relive that. You do not have to tell me anymore if you do not want to.”

But Ned did want to. He wanted to reveal what he saw all those years ago. “He raped her in front of my eyes and I did nothing to stop it.”

The second he said it out loud, Ned was shackled by childhood horrors. He remembered his mother's outcries, how she scratched his father's skin until he was bleeding, how she bruised herself bloody fighting him off. He can still hear the way the seams of her dress ripped apart. She did not cry but she did scream. She called his father horrible things. The worst part was how Rickard held onto her after he was finished, how he clung onto her despite the fact that his arms were being shredded by her nails.

“You were a child,” Howland defended immediately. His protest became louder as Ned removed himself from the memory. “It was not your fault.”

“If I had said something sooner,” Ned denied, “He would have stopped. He let her go when he heard me whimper. My mother screamed at him not to touch me. I was crying the entire time, and she held onto me and kept me close. She was violated by my father, and yet she saw to my comfort before hers.”

Howland refused to release Ned from his arms. He kissed him on the forehead and repeated the notion. “It was not your fault, Ned.”

Ned wondered how long he had been waiting to hear those words. “They rarely spoke afterwards. I was told he visited her while she was on her death bed. The maids told me that he spent his entire time telling her he was sorry and that he loved her more than life.” Ned told Howland a secret. “I used to dream that she woke up, at least once, to forgive him.”

Howland closed his eyes and cried for the tears unshed. “Your mother and father loved you,” he told Ned. “They would have wanted you to know that there was nothing to blame you for.”  

Ned hoped what Howland was saying was true. Selfishly, he asked Howland if he could love him in spite of his flaws.

Howland smiled. “You never have to ask for my love or my loyalty, Ned. It is yours to use as you please.”

They left for bed shortly after. Howland slept within Ned’s embrace, and reveled in the sensation of the universe setting things right for them.

For the following days, the Reeds acted as if Winterfell was always their home. Once they were more comfortable with the layout, they participated in rowdy games of hide and seek with their cousins. The crannogmen were masters at the game, were accused of turning into shadows when playing.

Jon was not to start his lessons until he made the decision to stay, but Meera begged her uncle to teach her how to ride. Her green eyes were identical to Howland’s, and Ned found himself faltering within seconds. He asked Harwin to educate his niece. The time spent away on horses made it easy for Jojen to monopolize Bran’s attention. He was inseparable from the boy.  Though, Catelyn abhorred his mother’s presence, she could not hold her ill will towards the child who loved her son so wholeheartedly. He was no threat when he recited fables to Bran about the gods. His mannerisms were appropriate and he spoke to her kindly. She allowed him to be present with her child as long as an adult lingered for protection. 

Howland did not worry about his children’s obsession. They were too young to have their lusts be a concern. If the time came that Jojen or Meera would ask for Bran’s hand in marriage, the omega would have the final say. At least, he hoped that to be case. He and his sister never shared the same taste in alphas.

Instead, he focused on making things comfortable for Jon. He advised his oldest son to befriend the Stark ward, for he was more experienced with heats and it would be valuable to have an older omega support him. Theon was surprised by the newfound responsibility. Though he protested the request and displayed his annoyance freely, there was a flush of pride that came whenever he shared his advice. Jon was sweet and eager to learn. They talked about other subjects as well. Jon learned that Theon loved playing with the dogs from the kennel, and he enjoyed hunting more than riding. He liked archery and could spend hours bragging about how good he was at it.

Jon asked him if he ever had an alpha inside him. Theon flushed deeply when questioned, and denied it. “But—it won’t be long until I do! I’ve gotten a lot of requests! I get them every single day!” He crowed. Jon did not doubt his popularity. Theon was pretty, and his breasts were big for his age. They would get bigger in time. Truthfully, Jon only asked to make sure that the older boy had not set his attentions on Robb, or vice versa. Jon then asked the boy to show him the dogs. The boy grumbled but was secretly happy about the visit. They met Palla, who gladly showed them the latest litter.

“They really like you,” Jon praised. Most were kind to him, but they lapped onto Theon’s face like he was covered in honey.

Theon grinned in pride. “Of course they love me. I’m here almost as much as the kennel master is.”

“Will you be able to take some home with you? Once you return to the Iron Islands?”

Theon became deathly still. “No. I can’t.”

One licked Jon’s cheek and he giggled. “Maybe if you asked father. He is very kind. I’m sure if you told him how much you care for them—”

“I can’t,” Theon stressed again. He sounded angry. “We don’t hunt on the Iron Islands, only fish and raid if we need food. There’s no use for hounds.”

“Oh,” Jon was surprised. “I’m sorry. But maybe you could keep one as a pet?”

Theon scoffed and put the pup back amongst its siblings. “It’s fine,” said Theon, though his tone indicated otherwise. “The ironborn don’t need something as soft as pets. We’re not soft like you green folk. We don’t need hounds; we don’t need anything. I’ll become someone’s rock wife and he’ll provide for me.” He all but ran out of the kennels. Jon followed, yelling out his apologies. He told Theon he did not mean to upset him.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Theon,” Jon pleaded.

Theon scowled in response. He turned his back on Jon and headed to the castle.

Jon refused to let up, and took ahold of the older boy’s arms. Jon was small, though, and appeared to swinging. Staring deep into his eyes, Jon asked Theon again. “What is wrong?”

Theon unleashed everything. He said Jon should get used to the nicest things because that’s his fate now. “You’re going to become a doll and marry the third or fourth son of a nobleman and give him lots of babies. Or maybe you’ll even marry a high lord who rings gold when he walks!” He mumbled something cruel, and objected the injustice. “It’s not fair! You’re a bastard, but your father is Lord Stark and he loves you. He sends you letters and gifts. My father has not sent word since I came here! Yet, I have to return to that horrid place and marry some lord who will take salt wives and rape me whenever he pleases because I’m an omega and that’s all I’m good for!”

He started heaving out large breaths, and only silenced when Jon embraced him. “I’m sorry,” he told Theon. “I wish you didn’t have to return.”

As soon as Jon said it, Theon started bawling. He never confessed it to anyone, and he did not know why he felt compelled to share his secret with Jon. Nonetheless, he accepted the comfort and hugged him back. It felt nice to be touched. When they returned, Theon’s eyes were all red. He claimed hay fever, and though his excuse was doubted, no one questioned him. Before he left, Jon asked if he would like to look at his dolls and dresses. Theon snidely remarked that he was too old, but then hesitated. “If you’re so desperate for companionship, I supposed I have to come.”

Robb watched the interaction without any amusement. He pulled Jon aside to hug him, and said he missed him before Jon could provide any sort of reprimand. Then, as an extra distraction, he asked if he enjoyed the puppies. Jon brightened up. “They were adorable! Will we get to play with them when they are older?”

Robb replied that Jon could do whatever he wanted at Winterfell. “I will not rest until you are properly spoiled.”

Jon blushed, and told him to cease the compliments. “I can see right through you, Stark.”

“And I see you. Stop being so beautiful and I will,” Robb countered with ease. Jon turned apple red, and it made Robb proud. He wondered what else he could make Jon’s body do, but never got the chance to find out when Jon ran away.

Robb glared at his fleeing figure. Jon had to stop doing that.

Despite their earlier interaction, Robb made sure that his presence was never far from Jon. The younger boy pretended to protest, but could not help but enjoy the flattery. From the reports of the younger omegas, all huddled in their cliques for gossip, Robb Stark was the most desired alpha in the North. He had offers coming in from the Karstarks and the Manderlys, and there were even some families in the South that were eager to make their acquaintance with the lordling. Jon giggled when he saw Robb showcasing his prowess in the swordsmanship. He was taking down boys whose first ruts were finished whenever he saw Jon watching.

Shortly after each posturing, Jon would be dragged away on some journey by his younger siblings, whether they shared a mother or a father. Arya grew especially fond him and his mother, the latter who was never short on tales of warrior maidens.  There was little wonder why, Arya, out of all her siblings, was the first to have her gift revealed.

Though Ned did not want to initiate Jon into activities he could not commit to, he allowed his two children to take their ponies for a trot around Winterfell’s gates. Jon saw his sisters riding together, and wanted to join them. Howland and Ned followed them closely. Jon held onto Arya’s hand while they rode for fear of falling off.  Though the horse was not yet grown, Jon was shocked by the height he reached on top of it. Arya made sure to comfort him every second. She praised his progress, though Jon was at risk of falling off a few times. When it was over, Arya helped Jon off the horse. She initiated a kiss much to her older brother’s surprised. She said Jon did wonderfully, and would continue to do well if he stayed to learn. Jon nodded and hugged his sister.

“If I stay I will teach you how to fight like the crannogmen. We can be _skjaldmær_ together,” Jon promised. “You, me, and Meera.” He thought for a second. “And Bran.” The boy was equally eager to join the ranks of knighthood.

The two hugged once more, before Arya was condemned to her lessons. “Embroidery,” she moaned dramatically. She stopped by her room to get dressed, and noticed her gift opened. At first, she thought someone had broken in her dwellings. Then, she saw that the gift remained and nearly screamed in excitement.

Chasing down the halls, she ignored her septa’s order to stop. Instead, she went through rooms and floors until she found Howland in Rickon’s nursery, singing him to sleep. He looked so happy with her little brother in his arms that Arya forgot he was not her mother. When his song finished, he asked Arya if she liked her gift. 

Arya jumped. Then, with the emotional flexibility of a child, she was overcome with joy. Her face expressed her approval. “I love it!” She grinned. “It is the greatest gift I have ever received!”

Howland smiled and he placed little Rickon back in his crib. “Do you know what it is?”

The question confused Arya. “It is a dagger. Right?” She hoped it was not some toy, like those wooden swords given to Robb for sparring.

“It is, but this one is special.” He walked towards her, and took the dagger from her hands. He directed it towards the back of his wrist and slid it across his skin. Arya tried to stop him, but she looked down and saw that nothing had happened. Suddenly, her worry was replaced with disappointment.

“So it is a toy…” 

“Of course not,” Howland disagreed. He brushed away Arya’s hair and smiled down at her. “You look like her, do you know that?”

Arya was surprised by the change in topic. Then, she nodded. Arya knew exactly who she was referring to. “That’s what they told me.”

“I loved her. I wanted to call her my sister, in the same way I wanted to call you and your siblings my children. If Jon had been born a girl, I would have given him that name.” He sighed, and his eyes were wet with unfallen tears. “She was very fierce. Had her father allowed her to carry steel, she would have made a great warrior.” He took the dagger from her hands. “She died a few months before her nameday. I had this blessed with a powerful spell for her. Now, I am giving it to you.”

Arya’s eyes widened. She took the dagger back. “What does it do?”

“This blade can cut flesh, but only those who have ever spilled the blood of a Stark. Use this dagger when your mind and heart are in conflict, and when you are doubtful of whom you share bread with. It will seek out your enemies, and leave you fearless of betrayal.” He kissed her head. “This,” he declared. “Is your best asset. You are clever, Arya, and you do not wield your honor like badge. To your father, that is a sin, but to a warrior, it is what separates the ground from the grave.”

Howland kissed her forehead. “Be who you are meant to be Arya, not who others want you to be. And I swear, one day, people will remember the name Arya Stark. Do not be dim. Do not have doubts. Do not have mercy.”

Arya gasped as lightning bugs crawled up her skin. She felt alive, and the pull of the dagger felt magnetic. She promised to cherish her gift for decades to come. She hugged Howland and vowed to use it on her worst enemies—the ones that hurt her family. Before she left, she stopped to tell Howland that, “he was her family, too,” and she would protect him as well.

The sentiment touched Howland. Instead of crying, he settled for a smile.

Arya wasted no time in bragging to her siblings about what she received. While Catelyn protested such a vulgar present, Arya soothed her concerns by saying it was just a toy. She cut her arm as proof and sliced up Sansa’s leg as a prank. Robb questioned her delight, for it was not like her to be so impressed by gimmicks. She smirked, and said he was jealous that his gift had yet to open.

Robb denied the accusation. True enough, he spent hours that night trying to get the object to open. On the following day, his shame was increased when he learned that Sansa had received her present. She refused to reveal what it was, and said it was between her and her older brother.

“I thought you said he was your half-brother,” Robb reminded angrily.   

Sansa blanched. She wanted to defend herself by telling Jon that she did not mean it. Instead, Jon held her hand and criticized Robb on his behavior. “You are being very mean, Robb. I do not like it.”

Robb growled and left the table, much to his father’s disappointment. Ned glanced over at Catelyn, who was holding back her horror at the thought that her sole advocate was switching sides. Sansa spent every moment at the table trying to reassure her mother that she still loved her. She exclaimed that her hair was pretty, and that the dress looked lovely on her. Catelyn smiled, but the wrinkles around her eyes were weighed down by concern. She went to bed early that night.

Before Howland and Ned went to bed, she thanked Howland for his gift. It was beautiful. “I would like to visit the Neck one day, and see where they grow.”

“I would like that as well.”

Ned wondered what he did, and Howland replied “nothing.”

“The gods wanted them together, and so they shall be.”

Howland did not tell him that earlier than day, he had made a stop to the kitchens to ask Gage if he could make lemon cakes for his children. “I heard the lemons were in bloom, and I wanted my kids to have a taste of them.”

Gage agreed easily. He sent his little boy to the gardens to grab some lemons, and when he came back, Howland asked the boy if he would like to play with his son later. Turnip was surprised that the lord would ask such a thing. He looked to his mother who nodded his approval. “Jon is a very sweet boy. You would like him.”

Turnip gleefully agreed. He came to Jon’s room with lemon cakes and tea in hand, and found out that Jon had already prepared dolls for them to play with. Turnip had only played with cornhusks and yarn puppets before. He was not used to porcelain and fine silk, and expressed his disapproval immediately. “I cannot play with these, my lord. They are too precious! If I break them, my father could never pay back the debt!”

Jon frowned. “I’m not a lord,” he pointed out. Then, he had the brightest idea and handed Turnip one of his toys. “There! If I give one to you, then it won’t matter if you break it. It’ll belong to you anyways.”

The notion did more to horrify Turnip than to relieve him. Jon found the behavior tiresome, but continued his argument regardless. In the Neck, he lent his dolls to his playmates all the time. They were returned more often than not, and the valuable ones, he kept on display. While Turnip explained propriety, Jon took a bite of his lemon cakes. He moaned. “These are delicious! Did your mother make them?”

Turnip was not the brightest candle in the castle, and was instantly distracted. He praised his mother’s work and said that he just baked them. “The tea is fresh from the garden as well! Jasmine and mint!”

Jon took a sip and chirped about its deliciousness. He asked if Turnip wanted to be a cook as well.

“Yep!” Turnip was glowing. Jon handed him the doll without him noticing, and the boy cradled it while he was talking. It fit snuggly in his arms. “I’m only a scullion now, but my father has been teaching me a lot. I know how to cook eggs and use bones to make broth…” Once in his element, the boy became a never-ending bard. Jon listened politely.

Sansa was leaving her lessons when she overheard them speaking. She saw Turnip holding a doll much too fine for his stature, and understood that Jon must have lent it to him. Sansa was a bit taken back. She was surprised that Turnip allowed Jon to do so. When she asked the other omegas at Winterfell to join her for games, they all refused. They said her dolls were too nice for them and Jeyne later confessed that they felt ashamed. Sansa took the hint and took to playing in private.

While floating in the doorway, Jon caught her eye. Turnip stood up in respect, but Jon sat leisurely. He asked if she wanted to play with them. Turnip choked up. In response, Sansa spun her heel and walked off. She never said a word.

“She hates me,” Jon said quietly. Turnip tried to alleviate his pain by saying that Sansa is a lady—she had to abide by certain standards. “She’s different from us—she’s not…” Turnip lowered his voice. “She could hardly be called a Northerner. Don’t worry, everyone knows that when she marries, it’ll be to a southerner. She won’t be mean to you much longer.”

The excuse did nothing for Jon. “She is still a Stark,” Jon muttered. She was still his sister.

When Sansa went into her room, she saw a plate of lemon cakes awaiting her. She thought about visiting her mother and sharing them with her, but remembered that her mother was at the sept. She then considered finding Jeyne, but the girl already turned her down once. “I have duties,” Jeyne told her. Sansa tried not to think about the annoyance that lingered in her tone when she refused Sansa’s request. It would only make her sad. Instead, she ate her cakes alone. The room was so quiet that she could hear her own chewing. She wondered if she should offer some to Arya, but they always got into a fight when they ate together. She could not think of any more people. She found herself full on the second bite.

I’m so lonely, Sansa thought. Her eyes teared up. If I had taken Jon’s offer, I would…Sansa shook her head. She wiped away her silly tears, for she was a lady and ladies do not cry over bastards. Her father, Robb, her younger brothers and sisters, they were all forgetting about her mother; how hurt she was to have her father’s illegitimate child and mistress staying with them. The shame was killing her, and Sansa was the only one to see it. She needed to be faithful even if no one else was.

After a while, her cakes remained uneaten.  Sansa knew she could not keep them in her room, for fear of rotting and letting the rodents and roaches in. If one of the servants got it, Gage would learn that his hard work would have been for nothing. Sansa feared she would have cried when confronted.  She decided that she could give it one of the guards. They would appreciate the gesture.

On her way there, Jon was coming back from the kitchens. He saw the cakes in her hands and asked if she was feeling sick. The question surprised Sansa.

“No, of course not. Why do you ask?” Sansa winced at how defensive she sounded. If Jon noticed, he did not show it.

“I was told that lemon cakes were your favorite. It was why my mother had them made. He wanted us to enjoy them together.” Jon looked down. “I will tell him and our father that you were under the weather and could not enjoy them with me.”

It was the perfect excuse. Sansa could return to the kitchens instead of finding a scapegoat, and no one would be the wiser. Except, Sansa’s stomach churned from her brother’s kindness and her own callousness was more vivid because of it. “Or, we could eat it together if you’re not full.”

Jon’s eyes widened. Sansa had never made such an offer before. “Are you sure, Sansa?”

Sansa nodded meekly. “We would have to eat it soon. Before…” Before her mother got back from prayer. “Before dinner, or we’ll be too full for proper food.”

Jon giggled. “You’re a real lady, Sansa. I don’t think I’ve ever met one beside you or your mother.”

The compliment made Sansa’s day, and she felt considerably better about extending her offer to Jon. She was a lady, and ladies were expected to be kind and generous and give aid to those who needed it. If Jon wanted someone to befriend and play with, she was the only one who could do it properly.

They went into his room, and the cakes tasted better than before. They made up little stories for their girls, and Jon asked if she wanted to be a princess. Sansa told him ‘more than anything’ because she loved the idea of attending balls and having tea parties. When pouring imaginary tea, Jon told Sansa a story about the Marsh King’s daughter—how she was forced to married Rickard Stark after he slewed her father in battle. “She heard he was called the Laughing Wolf for his jovial nature, and sought to punish him for murdering her father.”  Sansa gasped. That was rather cruel for a princess. She wondered if he was making fun of her. “When they were married, she told King Rickard that she would not bed him until he could solve her mysteries. He accepted her challenge, but found himself stumped whenever she reached the climax.” Jon chuckled. “He thought she would hand him riddles from children’s books, or commoner plays. Instead, she gave him tales of murderers and thieves, and at the end of the night, she asked ‘who did it?’ but he could not answer. Soon, the famous Laughing Wolf could no longer smile.” Jon lowered his voice as to add drama. Sansa leaned in, completely entranced. “His advisors told him to kill her and take another wife, but he found his sullen bride too alluring. He could not let her go. His maester accused her of bewitching him, but King Rickard refused to believe him. He threatened to have the man killed if he said another word.” Jon bit into his cake. Sansa forgot they even existed. “He worked tirelessly to solve her riddles until finally, he managed to complete one.”

Snasa was delighted. “Did they fall in love?”

Jon nodded. “The had several children together—the oldest was Rodrik Stark, who would later inherit his father’s position as a King in the North. He was the one who annexed Bear Island.” That was where his aunt lived now. “The second, an omega boy, would be given the Neck to rule. That’s where my line comes from.”

Sansa was amazed. “So the Reeds come from the Starks as well?”

Jon nodded. “And the Marsh King, who was the ‘first among equals.’ He was touched by the old gods, like your ancestors were—like _our_ ancestors were. We must always remember that our lineage is derived from kings.” Less we allow ourselves to be dominated by those undeserving, thought Jon.

The suggestion was ominous in its essence, but Jon was quick to change the topic before Sansa could question him. He smiled and fed Sansa a lemon cake with his hands. She chomped on it. When they were finished with their cakes and playing, Sansa acknowledged that her return was inevitable. She said goodbye to Jon, who was reminded of another concern.

“Wait!”

Sansa stopped.

Jon rustled through his possessions, and picked up a familiar box. He handed it to Sansa. “This is for you.”

Sansa gingerly reached out for it. “Thank you.” She would have to hide it from her mother and septa, but it made her smile to know Jon kept it safe for her. As soon as it was in her hands, they were both surprised to see the lock come undone.

“Open it!” Jon exclaimed, overwhelmed with his own excitement.

Sansa did as command, and when she lifted the lid, a flower with five, red petals as big as Sansa’s entire body sprung from its confinements. It was attached to no ground or water, but a seed sprouting from air. Jon gasped at the sight of it. He took Sansa’s hand and demanded that they leave immediately. At first Sansa was too shock to do anything. Jon tightened his grip. “We need to go!”

He dragged her throughout the halls. If a serving girl or boy saw the blur of red, they could only assume it was Sansa’s hair dashing past them. They ended up alone in the courtyard, where Jon told Sansa to release the seed. At first, the eldest Stark girl was too surprised to do anything. It was after Jon pushed a second time, shouted ‘now’ with such force, that she obeyed. She held the seed out in her hand and out of nowhere, a gust of wind came upon them.

The petals fell apart and scattered into a million pieces, creating a whirlwind of a red around Sansa and Jon. Sansa gasped as she saw something she could not begin to describe or believe—creatures were bred from the red remains.

Fairies, she thought. The flowers were breeding fairies. One creature went up to her nose and touched bopped her with its lips. Sansa giggled. When the sensation was over with, the seed remained in Sansa’s hand. It was still blooming, but not in the same magnitude as before.

“What was that?” she asked Jon. Her excitement could not be measured. “That was beautiful! I saw fairies, Jon!”

“Those were flowers from the gods. I do not know what the word is in the Common Tongue, but in the Old Tongue, they are called _fae_ _blóm_. They’re similar to weirwood trees except they are not meant for worship. Those who sing songs of earth would plant them as a mark of territory.” Jon squinted his eyes around the area. Then, he pointed to a spot of red in the landscape. “There, now it will be forever known that Sansa Stark was here.”

Sansa giggled. She placed the flower back into her box. “Is it okay to leave it in here?”

Jon nodded. “It is yours to do as you please.”

Sansa and Jon linked hands and returned to the towers where they would have dinner. Catelyn was horrified to see the two bond, but made no note of it to anybody. She asked about her lessons, and tried to ignore the way Robb’s jealousy riled up whenever a gift was mentioned. She was imagining it, she told herself. Her children were not being seduced by these ungodly beings. They were human. Yet as soon as the thought entered Catelyn’s mind, she knew she was lying.

The following day, Robb was no closer to opening the box. He distracted himself with lessons from Maester Luwin, and became obsessed with strategy and warfare. He had the aging man provide him with a book of riddles to sharpen his mind and listened to stories of sorceries and spells. The man was cautious to indulge the young lord, yet did as commanded when Lord Stark did not halt the additional teachings. “Not all magic is bad,” Ned pointed out. The maester was not so sure.

On the training grounds, Robb was ferocious. Theon was reluctant to train with him being so rough, and the other boys stopped holding back. He returned with more scrapes and bruises than ever before; he did not even need Jon’s presence as an incentive.

“I suspect he’s entering a rut,” suggested Rodrik. “It might be because of his brother’s presence. I fear they are… _compatible_.” The suggestion tasted like sludge on his tongue. “If the boy chooses to stay, they should be separated from each other. We should prepare a heat room in the near future. We do not want a repeat of what happened with your sister.”

The recommendation was plausible. While rare, there were cases of siblings who recognized each other as potential mates. The Targaryeans were notable examples, and Lyanna’s blossoming had encouraged a rut within Brandon. His older brother never went far in his advances. He was taken down as soon as he claimed Lyanna to be his. The two were embarrassed by the circumstances and did not speak for days. Benjen teased the two regardless.

Ned said he would look into it; the same moment Howland returned from an expedition around Winterfell, chatting with the retainers and their families. He carried Jojen in his arms. The little boy asked his uncle where Bran was, and the man replied he was sleeping in his room. Jojen squirmed out of his mother’s arms but the omega kept him put.

“Jojen, we promised Jon that we would have lunch together. Bran will be here when we get back.” He positioned his youngest child so that they were facing. “Don’t you want to spend time with your older brother?”

“We don’t know if he’s leaving,” Jojen pointed out. “But when we go back home, I won’t be able to see Bran for years.” Not until Jojen was old enough to ask for his hand in marriage—and there was no guarantee Bran would find him worthy. His mother was firm in his decision.

“After lunch, you can visit him.”

Jojen opened his mouth to complain, but one glare from his mother and he slammed it shut. Howland touched his uncle’s shoulder as a goodbye, and bid Ser Rodrick adieu. The man did not like his mother, but he would not refuse a lord’s courtesy.

While they gathered goods for their picnic, Jojen sat on the kitchen counter, his tiny legs swinging. He looked outside the window, a small opening at the top of the wall. He asked if they could bring Bran along. Surely, neither Jon or Meera would complain.

Howland paused. “What is it about Bran that has gotten you so worked up? You’ve been obsessed since you came.” He tried not to sound worried. He was sure Meera was infatuated, but Jojen’s emotions were not something to underestimate.

“If I told you, would you ask uncle to arrange a betrothal?”

Howland shook his head. Such an odd boy he raised; the child could care less about ruling and power, but give him a pretty omega and he’ll fight to the death to have him. “No, but I can make it so that it is not outside the realm of possibility.” He put in a whole pie into the basket. “I could also make it so that Lord Stark never hears of your proposition.”

Jojen frowned at his mother’s manipulations. He looked around and told his mother that this was not the time or place to have such a discussion. The implication made Howland sigh, and the Lord of the Neck requested one of the scullions pack their lunch. He followed his son to a window in the hallway, a corner where no one could arrive without being spotted instantly.

Alone, Jojen used the True Tongue to explained his theory about Bran. “He can see our magic—not just the outcome, a broken arm or a choked throat, but he can see it in the air. I planted a flower in another room and asked him to find it. He was able to trace the trail. I’ve seen him talk to the ravens and the leaves, and when he dreams, he sees things that I do as well, but more vividly.” 

“Are you saying that Bran is a…?”

Jojen nodded. “If I am right, that would make him a greenseer. If he isn’t trained, his powers will go away or become out of control. I cannot let that happen, mother!”  

Howland grimaced at the possible fate. If Catelyn had anything to do with it, then Jojen was right. Bran would lose his potential in a matter of years. Howland, as a devote worshipper of the gods, could not allow the corruption to continue. “Find Bran, and have him join us at the weirwood tree.”

Jojen took the duty like a soldier. He dashed out of Howland’s presence, while the man tried to soothe his aching headache. He had not plan for this. At the very least, he would need to convince Ned to foster his omega son in the Neck, and at most, convince him to arrange a marriage with one of Howland’s children.

Regardless of what needed to be done, Howland must first confirm the theory. He took the children to the godswoods, where they laid a picnic blanket and arranged their meal. Jojen was holding onto Bran, singing his praises while the boy sleepily tried to keep up with all the excitement. They had plums and figs, some custard and puddings—mutton and breads and cheeses. All in small portions, for the crannogmen did not eat that much.

Howland grabbed his knife and made a prayer; Meera and Jon were snacking on figs and cheeses, and Jojen was rocking Bran in his arms. Afterwards, Howland dug the blade into the weirwood tree and allowed the red sap to pour over the object. He walked over to Bran with the knife still dripping. They all went silent. Howland took Bran into his arms, and led him to black pool. The boy was staring at Howland’s hand. Howland gave the knife to Bran to hold and held his grip to keep it from falling. He dipped his palm into the black pool and allowed the water to swirl around Bran’s hand. The boy gasped.

“Just watch the water,’ Howland told Bran. “Let the water sing.”

The water rose until it covered Bran’s arm. His eyes turned black before they turned white as clouds, and he saw visions from behind the wall. They were like the dreams Howland had been privy to, except instead of flashes and visual metaphors, Howland was there. He was standing on top of a snow mountain with Bran holding onto his hand. Down below, he watched mammoths walk in their natural order, and giants came into view, carrying boulders and lumber. They retreated to an area where the wood and boulders were stacked on top of each other. It was an infrastructure. Howland’s mouth dropped. They were building a castle.

Bran let go of his hand. As soon as that happened, they were removed from the experience entirely. Bran pulled away from the hold the pool had on him and retreated to Winterfell. With his tiny legs, he could not go far. Jojen wanted to follow him, but Howland pulled him back. They needed to speak to each other. He told Jon to go in his stead.

 Jon ran after him, and within moments, captured his half-brother into his arms. The boy struggled, and though his pudgy body squirmed in his arms, Jon kept a tight grip. After tiring himself out with his efforts, the boy submitted to the embrace. He was scared. He was shivering. Jon soothed him with encouragements. “You were so brave, Bran. Do you understand how special you are?” He hummed a song that was warm, and Bran’s body was filled with heat. The boy calmed down into he was snoring in Jon’s arms.

With the boy safely snugged in his arms, he informed his mother that they were returning to Winterfell. Howland agreed, and when Meera and Jojen tried to follow, he forced them to stay. “Let Jon handle this,” Howland told them. “He needs to learn.”

Jon took Bran to his room, and tried to set him in his bed, but the boy clung onto him for security. He mumbled for Jon not to leave him. The older boy kissed his forehead, and told the boy that he would not. “You’re my brother, Bran. I could never leave you.” And while the boy rested through the understanding, the meaning made an impact.  He let go of Jon and was put to sleep.

Later that night, Bran woke up to the sound of rattling. He opened his blue eyes, as pretty as the Braavosi sea according to his mother, and searched his room for the cause. He got out of bed and sought out the noise. He saw Howland’s gift glowing through the crack. He went near it and heard voices. When he stepped away, the whispers became softer and the caw of birds became silent. He bit his lip. If he was to be a warrior, a knight or a _skjaldmær_ , he needed to be as brave as Jon believed him to be.

He opened the box, and found a red marble as big as a man’s eye, with an ink design that looked like a raven. He took it out and placed it against the moonlight for admiration. The glow combined with the crystal created a kaleidoscope in his rooms, consisting of moonshine, shadows, and glass reflections. He watched as the image swarmed his wall and performed a scene of ravens and arrows. The creatures separated into rain drops that formed a thousand eyes. He looked into each eyeball and saw a spell.

When he dropped his hand, the contents removed itself. He lifted the marble upwards and they came again. He thought to whisper one of the enchantments, but a part of him knew that this was not the time to do so.

Bran would have his moment, but it was not tonight.

Bran could never tell anybody about his gift, both out of practicality and inability. How was he to tell his mother and father that he kept monsters in his room who sung him songs to sleep? He was only a bit older than a babe, and could barely babble the words, ‘orbs’ and ‘ravens.’ Robb discovered the open box when he was scouring for evidence. He was enraged. He could not believe that Arya, Sansa, and Bran already had their contents revealed. Rickon was too young, he knew, but that did not explain the others.

On the second to the last day of the week, Robb confronted Howland about his cursed box. “It won’t open for me and I do not know why. There is something wrong with it.”

Howland, who had recently engaged in intercourse with his father, was reading letters from the White Harbor. His father had left to discuss “urgent matters” with Maester Luwin, which meant it was one of the rare moments Robb was alone with the lord. Robb looked away during the conversation. He was not yet used to Lord Reed’s brazenness.

"Are you even listening to me?" Robb scowled at Lord Reed's nonchalance. 

Howland sighed, and tried to sound more put out than he actually felt. "Lord Manderly is requesting my intervention on a private matter." Holland chuckled. "Apparently, he is a much more honorable man than I give him credit for. It turns out that even southerners have morals to strive for." 

"Lord Manderly is not a southerner." The man and his sons became enraged when someone even suggested it. 

"He acts like one." Howland put the letter aside and turned his attention onto Robb. He addressed Robb's previous concern. "If this is about your gift, do not fret. It is not broken. The box opens when it is supposed to.”

“And when is that?”

“When you deserve it.”

Robb could have screamed, but such behavior was more befitting of a child than the Stark heir. He would not prove the Lord of the Neck right. “I am not a fool. The box opens whenever my siblings interacts with Jon. It has something to do with him. Why have I not received the gift? What am I doing wrong?”

Howland chuckled. He did not give the boy enough credit. “You are not wrong. All your siblings were able to receive their gifts after they spent time with my son. But it is more than just occasion and activity. It is the bond of blood and the bond of love that I enchanted those boxes with. Arya, Sansa, and Bran—they have all opened their hearts to Jon. You have not.”

For all his young life, Robb had felt no greater offense than from that single accusation. “I love Jon,” he declared, madness ringing with every word. “You cannot say that I care less about him than anybody here.”

Howland narrowed his eyes. Such a conceited child, he was. “Tell me Robb, have you ever carried a babe inside your belly, or drink and eat to preserve a life that was not yours?”

Robb became mute.

“Have you ever watched the man you love carry your child away, knowing that stopping him meant withholding a life of love and acceptance for your offspring? Could you ever love someone with your actions over your own words?”

All of Robb’s defenses were nothing compared to Howland’s auxiliary. He stood and listened with dignity, for he had so little left. Howland left the bed and cornered Robb against the door.

“You come in here twice to ask me to give Jon to you, and I told you that you needed to deserve him first. I was not clear before. You want Jon to stay, then you must give him what he deserves. Take the North for him, Robb Stark. Make him desire you so much that he is inclined to give you your heart’s desire. The skies only rain on the earth that feeds it first.” Howland scoffed. “Otherwise, how could you claim to love him?”

“I…”

“You?”

Robb pushed himself away. He marched out of the room. He saw Jon walking towards his mother’s quarters, and his younger brother seemed charmed to see him. “Robb!” he chirped. His happy expression faltered when he saw the rage burning in Robb’s eyes. When he hesitated to pursue a hug from Robb, the older boy was further incensed. He would not stand for such blatant dismissal. He grabbed his arm. Jon jumped. Robb watched his steel colored eyes widened and his pretty mouth gape. Good, he thought, Jon’s eyes should only be on him.   

“Robb, I warned you about touching me.” He was so cute when he tried to sound threatening.  

“Come,” he ordered. He attempted dragged the boy to his room, and ignored all his protests. His younger brother would be silent soon enough.

You’re hurting me, thought Jon. He asked instead, “Where are we going?”

“Your room,” Robb revealed. He told him, with more irritation, “Your mother is infuriating.”

Jon pouted at the insult, but he knew it was a common sentiment. Even his uncle was caught expressing his disapproval more than once. He wondered what his mother did now to force such a reaction. He was distracted by his thoughts when he felt a bruise forming. Having enough of such rough-housing, Jon did his best to struggle. Robb was bigger than him, but Jon was wily. He managed to slip out of his grasp and get away. He chased down the halls, towards his mother.

Before he could escape, Robb lunged onto Jon. There were no servants around so Robb kissed him as if he were underwater and all the breath in the world was reserved in Jon’s lungs. Their teeth clanked together; their lips were smashed like a hammer on potatoes. The sensation was awkward and messy. Neither of them knew how to kiss like adults. When they parted, Robb revealed that he does not care about the gift.

“What?”

“The gifts Lord Reed gave us Starks. I don’t care about it. Fuck it to hell. It’s stupid and childish and I don’t want it if it remains a symbol of how much I don’t want you, because it is a lie. I want you, Jon. I love you more than anybody I have ever loved before. I want to kiss you like adults and make love to you and stick my cock into you over and over again until you are mine.”

Jon’s face bled with humiliation. “Robb! You cannot say such things to your brother!” He searched the hallways for eavesdroppers. “Especially not here! The gods—!”

“The old gods wanted us together. They made us alpha and omega because of it. They—” Robb took a huge breath and kissed Jon again. This time, he was more concentrated on forming an alliance of their lips than fighting a battle. He wanted it to feel good for Jon, but he was losing control of himself. He parted, and they were breathless. “I want to kiss you better. For that, I need more practice.”

 “But—” Jon was horrified and intrigued. Robb made it sound like he was proposing to him—but that wasn’t possible! “What about your duty?”

“My fate is to be your husband, and the duty of a husband is to provide the means to survive for his spouse and to sire children for nursing.” He was being irrational, but the confession alleviated more than his guilt; it opened doors to delicious forms of darkness. He grasped Jon’s face. “Can you imagine? A North under our rule? Our old gods would prosper,” Robb could care less about them. “And these lands would never have to follow a false king ever again—a king without dragons. We will release this realm from the Southern hold.”

“What if your people protest our union? What if they condemn us for our sins?”

Robb glowered. “Anybody who refuses can meet my blade.”

_“Break the hackles of the southern hold, removed the leeches with the winter’s cold…”_

Jon shivered. He could not dwell on songs when he had a vow to validate “I…”

“Promise me your hand in marriage, Jon. Promise me you’ll stay. I cannot keep my promise if you do not stay.” The intensity in Robb’s eyes made him impossible to refuse.

Jon hesitated. He did not enjoy being forced into an agreement. Yet, he could not deny Robb anything. “I will stay.”

“That’s not enough,” Robb growled. He shook his younger brother and kissed him. This time, Jon was prepared. He jabbed him the chest with his knuckles. Robb was a beast, however, and moved forward to devour his neck. Jon hit him again in the ribs.

“We are outside,” hissed Jon. He was not fast enough for his neck to leave unharmed. He knew that if he ever faced a mirror, bites and bruises would be commonplace on Jon’s skin. Robb was not yet a man, but he was still susceptible to the desires of one.

“I need you to swear. Swear on the gods you love so much.” Robb went down on his knees. Jon prayed that no one walked by to see them. Robb was more dramatic than a heat drunk omega!  

“I swear,” Jon promised, this time a little tiredly. “I swear on the gods that I will stay by your side.”

Robb grinned. He whispered in Jon’s ear that he would be there for Jon’s heat.

The promise made Jon wet, and had Jon’s eyes been blinded by arousal, he would agree. Instead, he retained his sensibility during the sensualism. They were not Targaryeans! Jon would not allow their lusts to send them to an early grave. “I cannot have a child right now!” Though he could if he wanted to—he wanted to enjoy his father’s attention alongside his brothers and sisters. Robb looked offended, as if Jon had just told him that he did not want his offspring. Jon clarified. “If father finds out that you have given me a babe, he would separate us. You do not have the power to keep us together yet.” Jon interlaced their fingers. “I would love to be the bearer of your children, Robb. Nothing would make me happier.”  

Had Robb replied with a stereotypical alpha response, a haughty expression of ownership and lack of acknowledgement of Jon’s agency, Jon would have returned to the Neck the following day. Instead, Robb embraced Jon and thanked him for his understanding. “You will not be disappointed in your betrothed.”

Following their discussion, far more calm near the end than when it started, Robb retreated to his room. He decided that he would begin moving in his possessions to Jon’s bedroom, little by little—enough not to cause a stir in the household. He saw the box granted to him by Lord Reed sitting on his table. He knocked it off for the sight of it was an insult.

The second it hit the floor, he heard metal clanging on the wooden floor. He turned around and saw a bit of bronze underneath his dresser. Bending downwards, he saw a circlet of iron spikes shaped as longswords. When he tried to touch it, the object turned to dust and shattered in the air. The dust formed a creature that immediately clouded his eyes. He could have screamed. Except, as the copper and tin forced itself into his blue eyes, he became overwhelmed with the images of a Northern kingdom, regal and great as the fairy tales he heard. Surrounding him was an army of direwolves and men, each of them bearing steel or blood. He was king, and by his side, Jon was his queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. If you read my other story, you would know that I am taking a hiatus between August 26th and September 22nd. I don’t think it will affect this story too much considering I take over a week to update already (my other story, which has shorter chapters, is updated every Thursday).  
> 2\. I will be taking requests during this time. Please send them to my newly made Tumblr page: sometimesimeow . tumblr . com  
> 3\. Next chapter is the last chapter of young Robb/Jon (hopefully). I want them to be older before any hardcore sexy times happens.  
> 4\. How many people recognize the mythological references in the story?


	5. Chapter 5

Howland Reed held onto his wailing children for hours. Not a peep of distress, a mutter of annoyance, or a sigh of exhaustion escaped his lips during the time he embraced his daughter and son. Jon made his decision, and there was nothing any of them could do to change his mind. Meera and Jojen knew this to be a possibility, but nothing could prepare them for the heartbreak that followed.

“I don’t want him to leave!” cried Meera. She was sobbing, and her snot and tears soaked Howland’s shirt. Howland held her tighter. His poor girl; how could he be so callous as to think he could withstand her pain? His youngest, Jojen, was not faring any better. At six years old, he could barely comprehend the severity of the situation. He did not know the right response. Should he beg Jon to stay? Or should he let him prosper with his other family? Should he cry for his leaving? Or should he be happy, for Jon was alive and well and surrounded by family? His confliction made his mind and heart ache and decided that the tears welling up in his eyes were better released than withheld. 

“It will not be forever,” Howland explained. “You can visit him on his nameday, and one day, Jon will return to the Neck. Perhaps he will even have a child—a little niece or nephew for you both to play with. Or, he may come back a great warrior. Meera, you can train with him again.” Howland stroked her cheek. She turned away. Howland frowned in dismay. He refocused his attention on Jojen and tried to sway his sadness. “Jojen, with Jon at Winterfell, it will be easier to convince your uncle to broker a union between you and Bran. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Jojen responded positively to the suggestion. Meera cried harder.

Howland could do nothing more than resort to soothing words and cheap consolations. Any other Northerner would convince them to hide their tears, for they were alphas and needed to be strong as stone and have souls frozen in ice. He was not an average Northerner, however, and would let them cry as they please. Deep inside, he wished to join them, but as a mother, his duty was to comfort, not be comforted.

Jon made his decision, and it was the right decision. Their sorrows were coupled with their own infuriation that they knew his choice but were too weak to withstand the backlash. None of them would beg him to stay. They had no right. But it hurt. The agony dug into their hearts and splintered throughout their beings. Howland bit back his own sobs; he wiped away his tears so fast, it was as if his hands never left Meera and Jojen’s curls.

Benjen arrived moments after Meera and Jojen cried themselves to sleep. Howland knew he was waiting. He had no skill for solace, even for his own children, whom he loved but could not care for like a father. Benjen told Howland that another raven arrived—this time from Oldcastle. They were coming in flocks as Lady Dustin made her grievances known. Lord Reed grimaced. He carefully laid his children to rest and kissed each of their foreheads. He walked over to Benjen and swiped the letter out of his hands.

“The old man is reaching his final days. When I asked Lord Manderly for assistance in mediating the matter, I did not mean for him to twist a dying man’s hands.” Howland grumbled as his eyes skimmed over the letter. “Wonderful.” Howland crumpled up the paper. “Now, Lord Locke is requesting a bride for his trouble. A man with no teeth believes his cock will magically rise from the dead to give him an heir.”

  
“At least he does not claim privy to an existing bastard.”

Lord Reed growled. He did not want to be reminded of his current crisis. “She has no reason to believe her husband sired a bastard, nor does she have any evidence to stand on. I offered her safe passage through the Neck, and she repays me by demanding a child. I have had enough with that malicious cow’s campaign against me!”

Benjen Stark wondered if it was unlawful of him to be more amused than concerned by the circumstances. “How many is that now?”

“With Lord Benfred from House Tallhart, and one of those ridiculous lords from House Ryswell, I have to deal with three paternity claims. Lord Manderly has calmed them down some—but it won’t be long until Lady Dustin accuses him of partiality.”

“Would she be able to?” Benjen remembered two different lords: the Manderly in his youth, an intimidating warrior who was kind, shrewd and jovial—who snuck him sweets in his pockets even when the wolf pup protested, and his current form—a man of gross proportions who could match his worth in weight. Benjen found him slovenly, but judging by how often he made appointments with his wife, the Stark knew there was more than meets the eye.

Howland nodded. “We’ve come to many profitable arrangements in the past.” Dealing with scoundrels masquerading as businessmen, and removing competition from his ports. “And his late wife was a crannogman.” Lady Wylla Greengood was a friend of Howland’s late father and resided from the southernmost part of the Neck. She had webbed fingers and toes like a fish and was able to swim in the depths of swamps for an impossible length of time. Her skin tinged green, even on dry land, and was an adventurer at heart. She was an inspiration to Howland—being one of the few crannogman to travel outside the Neck. Decades ago, she saved Lord Manderly from a shipwreck and nursed him back to health. When he recovered, Wyman Manderly demanded to marry the mermaid who saved his life or he would take no other in his home. “My father arranged a name for her and sanctioned her nobility to the Citadel. Out of love for his late wife, Lord Manderly will support my rule.” Without a doubt, Howland would need the help. “Even Lady Dustin’s brothers will hesitate to raise arms against a man whose body is made of silver.”  

“Are their suspicions unwarranted? Paternities are hard to claim enough, even if the lord desires the responsibility.”

“Of course they are warranted!” Had Benjen no sense of his predicament? Was he deaf and dumb to the schemes of the Neck? “You should have learned from your propositions that knots are a delicacy in the Neck. If we did not bed traveling lords and merchants, our numbers would have been reduced to a single house!”

“What is the problem if a few lords decide to claim their bastards?” They would not be treated any differently by the crannogmen if their attitude towards Jon was taken as evidence. “Knowing your people, they would use the opportunity to turn themselves into ‘Moss’ and “Mushroom’ to avoid mimicking Jon.”

“The problem is with their mothers. Lady Dustin wants to foster the child in her home. She needs an heir or else her position at Barrowton is threatened. She has refused every marriage offer given to her, and her hourglass of fertility is reaching its last grain.” Howland crossed his arms. “She is doing this to spite me. She has never forgiven Ned for not bringing back her husband, and with Jon’s stay, she is taking the opportunity to attack.” The woman would never resort to actual warfare for her revenge—she was loyal to the North and would follow Stark rule—but she hated Ned and Howland on a personal level, and that retribution required underhanded methods.

Benjen tried to soothe his wife’s worries. “Lady Dustin is a bitter woman whose grudging is unmatched by any other. The lords will only support her claim until the trouble exceeds the worth of Lady Dustin’s silence. They do not want bastards—they want deaf ears to her whining.”

Howland’s lips twitched. A smile was the last thing that should be on his lips. Anybody who did not recognize the dryness in Benjen’s humor would have surely accused him of being earnest. The Stark furthers the jest by claiming that Lady Dustin’s brothers, the two Lord Ryswells, have “appeals equivalent to a colt with a gout. They do not need worse luck finding wives.”

Benjen pressed his lips against Howland’s forehead. Like a child, Howland clung to his shirt and accepted the affection. He shoved his face against Benjen’s chest and tried to suffocate his stresses. His fists made wrinkles in Benjen’s dressing.

“They look down on us. They always have. My people have protected these lands from intruders since the Hammer of the Waters, and yet we fall privy to discrimination. It is not fair.” Howland released his grip. He looked up to Benjen, a layer of lashes hiding his determined gaze. “I was given a prophecy, Benjen. Like all the crannogmen, I was told of my fate as a child and I have strived for it. Every. Single Day. They will not lay their dominion over me. If the only way to garner their respect is through force, then they will learn that in the Neck, wars are won before the battles start.”  

“Howland…” Benjen took a deep breath. He wondered if Howland was this ravenous before his separation from Ned. All crannogmen were content with their moving homes and their sporadic livelihoods—only Howland showed ambition. He heard from his good sister that Howland always thirsted for glory and respect the Neck deserved, but from what he remembered, his friend was never so bloodthirsty in their youth.

“My father told me that all the crannogmen are my children. I am to care for them. I already sent one child away, I will not do so for another.” They did not need more Snows inside the Neck. They would not import more the grounded traditions of others into their wetlands. The North has bent the knee long enough—if Howland needed to remind them of their true natures, he will. Howland marched over to his room. “We need to pack immediately. If we leave tomorrow, we can make it there before the next moon phase.”

“Is that not rash? Does Jon not need more preparation?”

“Jon has received as much care as I can give him.” Howland sighed. Benjen could sense his wife’s frustrations. “I have been gone too long. He will understand.” He would, for that sweet boy of his took after his father when it came to duty. He would never demand his mother stay a moment longer if it meant jeopardizing the peace and security of his people.

Before he marched off, he turned to Benjen. His eyes were full of sympathy. “Try and talk to your children when they wake. Your time with them is shorter than you realize.”

Howland skipped supper to pack, and when he heard a knock on the door, he assumed it was a maid bringing his meal. When it opened without his permission, he knew his theory was half off. Lord Stark stood by the doorway. Howland heard him set a plate down. Though the pain was greater than the bite of a thousand leeches and the jaws of a lizard-lion, Howland faced him.

“I have to go,” Howland told Ned. There was no prompting. He was not obliged to justify a necessity. Yet, he wanted it to be known that this was not his heart’s desire but his mind’s petition. “My people need me.”

Ned said nothing. He rushed over to Howland and pulled him into a kiss he would remember for years. Howland closed his eyes. He savored the taste of Ned’s tongue and remained mesmerized by how well aligned the older man’s lips were with his. He let Ned carry him to their bed and take off his clothes. Ned returned the favor by removing his own garments. Then, he allowed him to swallow his cock and lick his cunt until he was dripping over his face. Howland squeezed his thighs to encourage Ned to dig deeper into him. Ned’s lips were swollen and red and glistened with Howland’s juices when he kissed him again.

Their lovemaking was like a slow-moving hurricane that swallowed wherever it rode. Ned buried himself to the hilt in Howland; he churned inside him while Howland twisted and rolled his hips for friction. Instead of making long, deep thrusts, Ned stirred his cock until the juices thickened and a knot swelled inside Howland’s gluttonous cunt. He pushed and stretched Howland’s pussy with great concentration, dragging his lips out whenever he pulled back.

“Ned…!” Howland cried. He gripped one hand in his lover’s hair as the man bit his shoulder. The bed sheets would stain. “Ned, I need you—go faster! Please!”

“You’re tight,” Ned growled. He pushed in further, and let the sound of Howland’s slick squish together and echo in his ears. He spread Howland’s legs wide apart. He went faster upon request, but his movements were sudden and erratic. He wanted Howland to tighten around his cock. He wanted to bury himself in that warm hole for days. Howland needed to be fucked the way he deserved—with a cock twice the size of his cunt filling him up and making him feel owned. He belonged to Ned like this, warming up his cock and being bred with his children.

Howland and Ned continued until they came—big spurts of cream filling up Howland’s hole. Howland moaned. Ned was plugged into his cunt, and the knot was forcing all that thick come into his womb, making his stomach wantonly round. Ned pushed in deeper. He saw his knot pressing against Howland’s stomach obscenely.

When they finished, Ned lifted Howland up and wrapped his legs around his waist. Howland let Ned carry him, cock still lodged inside his pussy, and body boneless with pleasure. He did not protest when Ned choose to lie on his back and had Howland resting on his chest. Out of possession, Ned used three fingers to stuff Howland’s ass hole, causing his cunt to clench around his cock.

“Ned,” Howland gasped. “If your intention is to fuck my legs off, I’m afraid I have to stop you before you succeed.” He whimpered when Ned slammed his fingers against his prostate. He came immediately and bit down on Ned’s chest. Ned’s cock was getting ready to pump another load. He could feel it pulsing inside him. “Or if you’re planning to fill me with a lifetime’s worth of cum before I leave, then I suppose I can’t stop you.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Ned confessed.

Howland laughed, though there was no humor in the sound. “And what would you have me be while I am here? Your mistress? Someone to warm your cock at your beck and call? A wet hole for your seed whenever you need release?”

Ned’s cock twitched inside him. Howland found the reaction pleasing because he rolled his hips and began sweet talking his lover for more. “I bet you would like that. You could keep me in this room for breeding—I’ll stop taking my medicine. No, you’d make me stop. You shove your cock in me over and over again until I get pregnant.” Howland mirrored his words with his physicality. He loved the teasing as much as Ned hated it. He giggled, deliriously high. “I would never say no to you. You like that, don’t you? I’m so shameless—you could fuck me anywhere. You wouldn’t have to drag me away into another room, I could be standing in the courtyard and you could simply lift up my skirt and pound my hole. I’d be your property. A whore. A pleasure slave. You could bend me over while you speak with Maester Luwin, or spread my legs in the middle of our son’s lessons. Maybe you keep me on my knees while you fuck my mouth, gag me until I’m choking on your fat dick. I love it when you treat my throat like a cunt, all slippery and hot and wet. You always get me dripping for it.”  

“Don’t do this to me,” Ned begged. He groaned when he came again. The second load was spilling out, despite how well plugged in Howland was. Howland reveled in the overstimulation. “Howland, you are the mother of my child.”

“What does that matter?” He whispered. “Whores have their master’s children all the time.”

Ned surprised him by pulling the lord into an embrace. Howland struggled to be released but Ned kept him still. He closed his eyes. What could he say? He wanted Howland to stay so that he could have a semblance of the family he dreamed of. He would have Winterfell, his duty and his lineage, he would train Robb how to handle the affairs and find marriages for his daughters and sons. Then, he could have Howland. The everlasting, enchanting Howland, who saved his life and soul, who gave him a sweet son with every piece of the people he loved inside him.

“Would you stay if I asked you to?”

Howland was silent.

“I don’t know,” Howland confessed at last. He stroked Ned’s hair away from his face and stared into his eyes. Jon has the same haunting gray eyes, only a little lighter, like Lyanna’s. Benjen’s eyes were like a storm—they were almost black. All of their children have Howland’s eyes, green. “Like lily pads,” Ned once described. Benjen called them leaves. Lyanna agreed because he remembered her taking her laurel of winter roses and stringing a single one around Howland’s wrist. She told him that if she was the rose then Ned was the vines and leaves that kept them together. The Starks were not poets, but they meant what they said.

“You’ve never asked me.” Oh, and Howland thought he’d gotten rid of the hope in his voice.

Ned kept his grip firm around his body. They stared at each other. Finally, Ned spoke.

“I love you.”

Howland’s eyes soften, but there’s sadness in them; the same sadness he carried whenever it was time for Ned to leave the Neck. He kissed his husband—his true husband. Because while Benjen has been by his side for eleven years, and has been titled spouse, friend, and sire, he could never compare to Howland’s soulmate.  

“I know,” Howland replied. And then he thought:

Wouldn’t it be lovely if the whole world knew how well he was loved?

-

Ned left the room after Howland fell asleep. He wanted the man to rest before he departed on his journey, and that would not be possible if Ned remained in his bed. He thought about the way Howland shivered without his presence and decided to get a shawl from his bedroom.

At this time of day, Lady Stark would be at the sept, praying to her gods for prosperity in her home, for the good fortune of her children (for the removal of vermin and the defeat of her enemies). Today, she was here. She was drinking her tea and wearing her nightgown as if she never left the room.

“I’d thought you be at the sept.”

Catelyn looked at him as if she were staring at a stranger’s corpse. Her eyes were dull and held the amount of care given by someone who valued human life but could not muster the feeling to cry for a stranger. She finished up her tea, and poured herself another cup. “You were wrong.”

Ned sighed. He forgone his original intentions and sat on the bed. “We should talk.” 

“Should we?” Catelyn blew on the liquid. “You despise such an activity. I’m apologize for making you uncomfortable. I do not possess Lord Reed’s tongue.”

“Catelyn,” he warned. He always spoke to her as if she were a misbehaving child; a relative who was constantly causing trouble but was tolerated out of affection forced upon him. She does not mind the tone today.

“You must be so happy. Your son has decided to stay. You are halfway finished with your perfect family!” Catelyn put down her tea. She got up. “Now, you must convince Lord Reed to join you, and you will have everything your heart desires. Of course, you must rid yourself of your first wife. Send me away to my father’s house, or if you are kind and wish to spare me the shame, kill me. There are plenty of tales relating to merchants traveling with diseases, or a wildling raid that ventured too far south. Oh! I have the perfect idea. I love to swim, but the waters here are different than the North. I could drown. Drown in this tundra of death and despair you call a home.” She laughed.

“Catelyn, you are ill.” Howland assured Ned that he would do Lady Stark no harm, but could not guarantee that his presence would not result in a resurgence of madness. Ned had not seen the signs, so utterly distracted by his son and lover’s appearance. He regretted his carelessness. “Sleep, stay in the room until Howland leaves.” He will order the maids to search the room for silverware and bar all the windows.

“Then, there’s our children. He loves our children. Not like me, not like your cruel wife who is so horrible that she cannot bear to love the child who reminds her of husband’s infidelity every time she looks at him!  But—” Catelyn gasped. “You will want time to make up for all the years missed. You must be quick! Marry our daughters and sons off as soon as you can, and foster your heir onto some worthy Northern house. Rickon is so young, Howland can pretend he gave birth to him. He did that—he did that to Robb—do you remember? When the fire in my son’s hair burned to brown, and his soft roundness turned sharp as knives. That milk of his is poison, and you let our son feed off of it.” She shoved him away in anger.

Ned knew better than to disagree with her. He tried to lead her to the bed, where she could rest. He touched her skin and she was burning—with fever or madness, he could not tell. “Rest, Catelyn. You will feel better afterward.”

Her strength was enviable. When he placed her body on the sheets, she dragged him onto it. They wrestled for a few moments until she was on top of him. “I thought you wanted to talk.”

Ned contemplated the ways he could remove Catelyn off of him without hurting her. “We can talk later.” When Howland was gone and Catelyn regained her senses.

“How does he touch you, Ned?” She pressed her hand against the outline of his cock. “I want to try it, too. You can pretend I am him when you fuck me like you’ve always had. Do you know that I’ve started to whisper his name when you mouth it? You think I can’t see your lips in the dark, but I can feel them against my skin. Howland. Howland. Howland. You’ve branded me with him.” Catelyn rolled her hips. She let out a little gasp when he twitched. She smiled down at him. “Let me replace the man you love. He’s leaving you—I knew it the second Jon announced he would stay. You’re going to lose him again. Just like I lost Brandon.” She rubbed a finger on his lips. “I was to be his wife, and now I am yours. Howland was supposed to be your wife, and now he’s your brother’s. Irony, thou name is Stark.”

In the dusky lighting, Catelyn’s blue eyes darkened to an unrecognizable shade of black and the desperation reminded him of Howland. He remembered his older brother telling him how happy he was with his father’s selection.

“She’s very beautiful,” Brandon told Ned. He had just come home from Riverrun to inform his family of Lord Tully’s acceptance. “I mean, nothing compared to Cersei Lannister or the queen—but she has the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen, and she’s a Tully. No madness runs in their blood.”

Ned said nothing. Benjen was in the other room, seething in rebellion. He refused to speak to his brother and father, for the only words that came out of his mouth were accusations of betrayal. He spent the entire dinner complaining about how their mother’s grave was turning. Their father, instead of punishing him, sent him to his room. Brandon advised their lord to teach him a lesson—he cannot possibly expect his wife to live amongst such disrespect but Lord Stark waved him off.

“Benjen is a child. He will grow out of it.” The statement was followed by a wistful expression indicating what Ned thought. Benjen sounded like his mother. Ned excused himself immediately. He waited for Brandon in his room and asked what Catelyn looked like.

“I told you she has perfect breasts, what more do you need?”

Ned gave his brother a pointed look.

Brandon sighed. “She’s a Tully. Red hair. Blue eyes.”

“Red like fire, or red like mother?” Their mother had dark auburn locks that she always held back in a traditional northern fashion. She told him that it blended in with the red dirt from the mountains she grew up in, or the brown sands toasted by the Braavosi sun.

Brandon thought for a second. “A mix of both, actually? More fire, though.”

Ned tried not to be disappointed.

When Catelyn’s hair rained down on his face, painted with the shadows of their bedroom, he was reminded of his mother and the way her hair would fall on him when she sang him to sleep or gave him a lesson. Yet, his love for red paled in comparison to his devotion to mud, honey, and leaves.

Catelyn gripped his arm. She lunged at him. Her kiss was forceful and fraught. Ned worried that all her strength had been poured into that single kiss and she would fall to pieces the next second. She proved him wrong when she spoke.

“I’ve served my purpose, and now you abandon me. Two alpha boys, and the three prettiest omegas in the world. An heir and a spare. A sweet boy to replace the one you lost. A child like Lyanna. A babe for the south.” Catelyn released his arm and laid on the bed. “My presence has never provided you pleasure. That’s why my other holes remained untouched. I would never be held in such regard.” She was a brooding mare, and nothing more.

Ned sighed. “Goodnight, Catelyn. I will send someone to bring more tea for you.” With a dash of milk of the poppy for kind dreams. “We will speak tomorrow.”

“Did you mean it?” She asked. “What you promised me?”

“What?”

“Years ago, when you first proposed fostering your son here, you told me you would allow me a lover. Did you mean it?”

“Yes,” Ned answered. He thought it was only fair that his wife found happiness. “And I would secure an inheritance for your children.” He would not allow her to suffer any more shame than she already endured at the hands of his indiscretions.

“Of course you would,” Catelyn was entertained by the prospect. “You are a good man, Ned.”

“Catelyn?”

“Go,” she dismissed him. “Spend time with Lord Reed before he leaves. Happy moments with a beloved are rare, and should be treasured.”

Ned obeyed. It was the first command she had ever given him. When he left, he saw his beauty of a daughter walk towards him. He asked Sansa about her intentions and she said she was visiting her mother, who was too tired to pray with her in the sept. In her hands was a piece of cake.

“She did not eat her dessert at supper—which never happens! I thought she might like some when she feels better…”

Ned was about to order her elsewhere. When awakened, Catelyn would be subjugated to the beasts that played in her mind. Yet he recalled how helpful Robb was during her recovery the last time and he wondered if another child would ease her affliction. He told Sansa that she must be very careful, for her mother was not well, and that the things she says may not come from a sound mind. Sansa heeded his advice and frolicked to her other parent.

Her mother was on the bed, and her head was turned in the direction opposite of the door.

“Mother?” she called softly to avoid waking her if she slept, but louder than a whisper so that she could be heard. Her mother faced her and her lifeless expression brightened to accommodate her child’s presence.

 “Sansa,” her mother greeted. She got up and leaned on the bedpost. Catelyn motioned her daughter towards her. A dove of a child placed the cake on the nightstand, hopped on her mother’s bed, and curled up against her dwindling form. “Mother, I brought dessert.”

“Thank you, Sansa.” But she didn’t take it. Sansa stared at her worriedly. To assuage her daughter’s fears, Catelyn reluctantly took the cake and many a tiny dent in the pastry. She smiled and told her it was delicious. “Would you like to have a bite?”

Sansa nodded. She opened her mouth and was fed a crumble. Her mother tenderly stroked her hair. They looked so much alike, except for the innocence. Sansa was still blind to the world; she was utterly untouched by the spirits that wandered the earth in search of vengeance and curses. Catelyn picked up another piece and her daughter repeated her mouth’s ‘o’ shape.

“Mother, are you ill?” Sansa asked after she finished swallowing.

Catelyn paused. “Why do you say that?”

“Because father said you were, and you are in bed when you are normally at the sept. You have refrained from eating as of late, and I heard that you do not sleep well.”

“I am not sick, Sansa.” Catelyn returned to her petting. “But I am sad.” And mad. Oh, so, very, mad.

Sansa frowned. “Is it because Jon is staying?” She embraced her mother. Her icy skin burned, and Sansa mustered as much heat as she could to warm her up.  “Don’t be sad, mother! I…Jon is very kind…but you are our mother! I like him but I will always love you more. I love you the most! If you desire it, I will…”  Sansa thought long and hard about what to say next. Catelyn stopped her before she could make any promises.

“Sansa, you are my darling,” Catelyn professed to her. She clutched her little hands.  “You are the best thing I have ever brought into this world.”

Sansa hesitated, for her mother was weak and her voice cracked and whittled in a hoarse whisper. Then, she nodded. “Thank you, mother.” She asked her mother if she was alright. “You sound strange.”   

“Did you know?” Catelyn smiled, sad and wilted as a widow. “When I married your father, he was the finest choice my family could broker. I was to be given the North! How excited I was to be Lady Stark. But I let my ambition cloud my judgment, and now you have a brother I did not bare. I regret it every day…”

 Sansa stayed silent throughout the story. She asked her mother if she would like some more cake, but the lady refused her. She told her she needed her rest. Before Sansa left, Catelyn told her how pleased she was that she raised such a fine daughter. “I could die happy with your smiling face as the last thing I see.”

Sansa giggled. She laid with her mother until a serving girl made her appearance with the tea. Sansa requested her own cup. The girl was unsure. Catelyn took the first sip and after tasting it, she told her daughter that the liquid was too hot for her to drink. In response, Sansa sang a short song and waited for her mother to fall asleep before she left. She ate the rest of the cake and wandered to her bedroom where a pile of fabric scraps awaited her. She was hoping to make a dress for her doll, but she figured her mother would be more grateful for a pair of gloves. Hopefully, if she had enough, she could make a pair for Jon as well.

-

That night, Howland and his children slept in Lyanna’s bedroom. Their time was limited together and they needed to make the most of it. Howland woke up hours before daybreak and saw Jon fiddling through his wardrobe.

“What are you doing, my love?”

Jon jumped. He did not answer and closed the closet door. He ran back to his bed to avoid an interrogation. He was unsuccesful—Howland scooped him up in his arms before he could retreat. After a bit of squirming and raspy protests, he settled into his mother’s arms. He heard his mother giggle. Jon frowned.

“I could not sleep. I wanted to stay awake so that I could have more memories of all of you.”

Howland kissed his curls and hummed. The vibrations tickled Jon’s skin and he laughed. “You’re so silly,” his mother claimed. “But I am happy you think so fondly of us.”

“Meera and Jojen are my brother and sister. You are my mother. I won’t see you again for years.” That was an exaggeration. He knew his family would visit on special occasions, such as his nameday or his wedding. Only the former sounded appealing. “You should be here with me, and with father.”

Howland did not disagree. He did not sound angry when he told Jon he was right. “And maybe, one day, our dreams will come true.”

Jon did not believe it. He glared at his mother. “Don’t mock me! You and father cannot be together. Not while Lady Stark is alive.”

Howland stared. He was taken back by the declaration. As soon as he said it, Jon covered his mouth in shame. “Forgive me! I did not mean to wish her ill will. I’m…” Sorry? But he wasn’t sorry, he was mortified by his own ruthlessness. He clenched his fist. “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay with father. You’re so much happier with him than without.  I want us to be a family.” Tears welled up in Jon’s eyes. “Why can’t we be a family?”

“Shh...” Howland soothed. “You know why I cannot stay. I am Lord Reed of Greywater Watch, and the Chief of the Neck. I have to lead my people and provide order to our wetlands.” He kissed his son’s forehead and reassured him of the infinite possibilities of Winterfell. “But you are Lord Stark’s son, and the gods gave you a fate greater than anybody could imagine.”

Jon’s eye widened. “How do you know about that?”

 “I asked the gods. They told me that majesty befalls you. In order to attain our former glory, the North needs you, Jon. They need you to accomplish your destiny, and by the gods, you shall.” Howland smiled ominously. His green eyes glowed. “Heed my advice, Jon. You belong at Winterfell. You carry the blood and soul of a Stark, you are just as trueborn as any of his children. Never forget that. No one, not even Lady Stark, can take that away from you. You are the proof of our love and the promise of our future. Lady Stark will never forgive you for existing.” Howland sighed. “But you do not need her forgiveness. Never allow her to warp your mind into something unholy. She is threatened by your existence. Your father loves you, and so do your brothers and sisters. Especially Robb.”

Jon nodded. Robb adored him. He promised. They were to be married.

“I ask that you do not give her advantage. Never be alone with her. And never, ever, lose Robb’s favor.” He clutched his face. “Since the day you were conceived, your existence has been the light of my life. The first step to attaining all you deserve has come. Robb is the heart of Winterfell, and he has given you his heart.”

-

Howland traded a night of rest to appease his son’s anxiety. When he woke, it was mid-afternoon and he was dragged from location to location to experience the last few joys of Winterfell. He knew of only one joy, and he was nowhere to be seen. Meanwhile, the servants readied his possessions for travel. They would be leaving tonight. At breakfast, Robb asked if it would be safe. Both Benjen and Howland reassured him of their security. Both of them were experienced travelers under the moon and have yet to face a danger they were not ready to defeat. Ned offered a few of his men for protection. They found the gesture amusing but knew better than to challenge Ned’s protective nature.

Afterward, Howland settled the last of the matters of Jon’s stay. Not even Ned’s needling could convince him of Winterfell’s positive education. He visited Ser Rodrik who was in the middle of preparing a lesson for his students. The man was surprised to see the crannogman and not at all pleased.

“Lord Reed,” he bowed appropriately.

“Ser Rodrik,” Howland responded. “I wanted to discuss my appreciation for your…interest in my son’s swordsmanship. I heard you will be taking him under your tutelage.”

The master of arms nodded. He puffed his chest out in pride. “I am responsible for training any young man of Winterfell in the art of a sword. That includes your son.”

“A yes would have sufficed.” Howland rolled up his sleeves. “My son has never held a sword before—we crannogmen have no use for them.”

“Worry not, I will make a warrior out of him yet. He will not fall behind under my guidance.”

Howland smiled, a look of dismissal and contrive. “My son is a warrior, Ser Rodrik. He knows how to fight as well as any of your boys do—perhaps even better. Just because we do not allow our enemies to take advantage of our brashness does not make us weak.”

Ser Rodrik bristled. “Be that as it may, but a boy of his nature will have a hard time finding cover every time someone wishes him ill. He will fight in the methods I train him in.”

“No, he will learn your methods and be given privacy to use mine. This is not a negotiation.”

Ser Rodrik did not take it as such. “Jon may not carry the name Stark but he carries the blood. My family has been responsible for educating the sons of Winterfell for generations. He will learn the ways of a knight not a—”

“Not a what?” Howland eyes narrowed. He took a step forward.

“My lord, I have overstepped my boundaries.”

“No, finish your sentence,” Howland commanded. “Not a what? A coward? That’s what the crannogmen are to you people. Cowards. Never mind that if it wasn’t for me, your lord would be dead. I saved his life. My people have saved thousands of lives from invaders. You are so eager to forget how the North has been untouched for so long—because my people stopped them from going through. From burning your farmlands, killing your children, and raping your wives. My people stopped that but we will always be those poor, uncivilized barbarians.”

Ser Rodrik attempted to apologize. Howland marched outside. Ser Rodrik followed and witnessed the Chief of the Neck grab a training lance. He slammed the wooden pole against the ground and broke off the top part. Ser Rodrik called out to the lord but he was ignored.

Ned was watching his children on the courtyard when the familiar signal of a spear aimed for his shoulder. Had he been younger, and immersed in warfare, he would have dodged it. Alas, he was in his home and he never knew anyone foolish enough to attack a Stark in Winterfell.

The spear hit his shoulder and then retracted to aim for his waist. This time, he knew to move out of the way.

“Lord Stark!” One of his guardsmen called. The men released their blades.

“Stand your ground!” Ned ordered. He turned to Howland who tried to remove his balance. He got out of the way and removed his cloak for agility and distraction. He tossed the fabric onto Howland and released the steel at his side. When Howland took a step forward, Ned addressed the blade towards his lover. “What madness has become you, Howland?” He sounded more concern than angry, and not at all betrayed.

Howland played with his makeshift spear. He was not a Dornishman, he did not twirl it and spin and showboat like a monkey on stage. Instead, he traced pictures into the sand, he switched the staff from arm to arm. Howland was trying to distract him through slow, patient movements. Ned had seen him use the same technique on many opponents to dire results.

“Your men think that my methods are a result of their cowardice. They think I am weak.” Howland hit his lover’s knees, causing Ned to falter. He aimed for the unbruised shoulder and was met with a sword. Ned got up and pushed him backward. Howland regained his stance. “I am not weak.”

“No, you are not,” Ned grumbled. He prepared himself for the next move.

Howland jabbed his stomach. He kicked up the cloak and mirrored Ned’s earlier technique. Most of the time, Howland would employ a net to capture his enemies. A cloak was severely heavier and not as flexible. Ned was able to remove the object easily but found his cheek being stabbed by the invading wood. He was knocked several steps back.

Ned heard his men moving forward and he repeated his command. “Anybody who lays a hand on Lord Reed will be removed as a guardsman and sent to the dungeons!” He looked up at Howland. “If we are to fight, then let us be equals. I will not fight you with steel while you carry wood.”

“Then, do not fight me. I don’t care. The wounded are my preferred prey.” Howland stabbed his spear into the ground where Ned was and the dust rose up. “They don’t run as fast.”

Ned groaned at the crannogman’s absurdity. He saw Ser Rodrik whose nostrils flare with indignation. He must have been the one to instigate this erratic behavior. Howland made another close call. Ned threw his sword on the ground and avoided another attack. He tackled Howland to the ground afterward.

At this point, dozens of Winterfell’s inhabitants swarmed to the courtyards to watch. Ned saw both his sons at the front of the audience. Only Jon remained calm—if anything he was entertained. He was used to his parents’ sparring. In the Neck, they called this type of behavior ‘play-fighting.’  In jest and practice, crannogmen would leap from trees and jump out of their rabid fauna to attack their fellow men. “Mother, please hold off until Meera arrives! We would like to bet in your victory!”

The audience stared at the Snow child who was hopping on his toes for a better view. Howland used the distraction to flip Ned over. He kissed him, licked his tongue in a long, drawn-out matter. Ned had tasted enough of Howland’s kisses to know when something was amidst. He bit the crannogman’s lips.

Howland got off and wiped the blood from his mouth. “You bit me?”

“You poisoned me,” Ned reminded. He tried to spit out the remains. “What did you give me this time?”

“This time?” Robb mouthed to his younger brother. Jon shrugged.

“I don’t know,” Howland lied. He was grinning, and skipping in a juvenile manner. “Would you like another taste?”

Ned withstood the following attack in order to get ahold of Howland. He dislodged the weapon and held Howland in his arms. He could feel his vision blur. “Give me the antidote, Howland.”

Howland struggled for a bit before settling in his arms. “No.”

Ned tightened his grip. “Now. You’ve lost.”

“Yes, but I’ll be taking my enemy down with me.” Howland spoke again, louder for everyone to hear. “In actual warfare, it would not matter if you vowed to spare my life in exchange for yours. I am your enemy—you would end my life regardless. Not all men are honorable with their promises. At least this way, I can take you down with me.”  

Ned sighed. His vision blurred and in his fatigue, he released Howland from his grasp. “Just give it to me, Howland.”  

Howland laughed. “There’s no antidote, my lord.”

Ned sunk to his knees.

“I gave you a sedative. You will be awake in an hour.”

As soon as Lord Stark dropped to the ground, the guards came running. They bounded Howland and took him away. Jon tried to stop them but was pulled back by Robb. “They will not hurt him,” Robb assured him. “He is still your mother, and father would never forgive them.”

Jon knew better than to protest. He watched as one man checked his father’s pulse, and outrage course through him. Did they honestly believe that his mother could do his father harm? They should be ashamed of themselves. Winterfell erupted into whispers. Jon tried to listen, but Robb pulled him away. Jon refused to play ignorant to the rumors. They called his mother ‘unjust’ and ‘disloyal,’ ‘reckless’ and ‘crude.’ He glared at the ones closest to him. They shielded themselves away.

“Don’t worry,” Robb pacified. “You heard father. No one would dare harm your mother. Once father awakens, he will be released.” He leaned forward to whisper in Jon’s ear. “And I’ll remember all the faces of these slanderous persons. They cannot be allowed to speak about your mother that way.” Lord Reed will be his good mother, and Robb cannot grant such disloyalty clemency.

Jon flushed in approval. He kissed his cheek and thanked him. “I must check on my mother. I will see you tonight.” Jon followed the guards as they took his mother prisoner. He could not believe how weak the Winterfell citizens were. How fragile were their minds and how thin were their stomachs to churn at the sight of a bit of play fighting?

-

When the guards and Howland were out of sight, they removed the binding around his wrists. Howland already knew that the ropes were for show. They did not even bother to tie him up—just wrapped the textiles around his hands. Heward apologized for the rough treatment and offered to bring him blankets for his stay in the dungeon. “You will be released once Lord Stark wakes up.” He paused. “You are sure you only gave him a sleeping potion?”

 Howland glared at him.  

The man turned away. “Yes, well, you are welcome to ask for anything to ease your time here. Your short time here.” He glanced over at Howland’s hands to check for burn marks. There were none. He sighed in relief.

During his stay, Howland was visited by his children who cooed at his martial skills. He played games with them for the first hour and told Jon how much he loved him. In response, Jon asked if he could pick a fight with his father again. “That way, Meera can watch and you can stay in the dungeons forever!”

Howland looked at the stone walls where roaches and rats contorted their bodies to fit. Jon grinned sheepishly. “It’s not the worst place we’ve ever lived.” They laughed and focused on more pleasant conversations. They made plans for Jon’s nameday, and told him that he needed to practice his spearing.

“I plan on fighting you when we meet again. And I will win.”

Jon kissed her and told her that he accepted her challenge. Despite their dismal surroundings, the Reeds were gay with laughter. They were relieved of their duties as entertainers and caretakers by Benjen. The man told his children to finish packing, and for Jon to greet his father from his nap. “He is fine, just weary and tired. I came in lieu of guards to release your mother.” He held up the keys in evidence. When the children left, he mocked Howland for his temper tantrum.

“My brother wants to have words with you.”

“He will have to teach me a lesson.” Howland pressed his lithe body against the bars of the dungeon. “You would let your brother punish your own wife?” He teased. “What if he wrongs me?”

Benjen rolled his eyes. “You have hundreds of new bruises and I can count more scratches on your skin than actual hair. I believe he is the only one that can handle you.” Benjen threw him the key.

Howland pouted when he caught it. He undid his gate and left the dungeons. He marched over to Maester Luwin’s quarters—where forgotten paper corals built on top of each other and ink based parasites grew on his belongings. The place was a bigger mess than the graveyards in the swamps, where the snake bodies decayed and the rotted trees sunk. Ned was resting on the bed nearby.

“He is tired,” Luwin explained. He sprung out from a pile of books—Howland, who has been trained since his youth to detect predators and camouflage prey, jumped in surprise. The man continued his explanation. “He did wake up, and I informed the guardsmen that he was just fed poppy milk—I am well aware that was not the truth.” He saw Howland open his mouth in protest. “But he has not gotten much sleep this week. I added a little something extra to his water. I thought he would appreciate the nap.”  

Howland agreed with this method. Ned looked so peaceful. “Thank you.”

“Since you are here, I have a few questions regarding your son.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I tutor all the Stark children in various subjects. It is well known in the Citadel that the Neck uses…a less structured system. I need to know how you would like Jon’s regime to proceed.”

Howland raised an eyebrow. “You are asking for my opinion?”

“He is your child.”

“He is,” Howland agreed. The lord took a seat at Maester Luwin’s table. He did not acknowledge the mess, and focused on the man before him. “Jon knows all the basics. He can read, but his literature is limited to his father’s letters. The same applies to his writing. He knows his maths well, as he and his siblings join me when I calculate the Neck’s rations. History, he is well versed in.” More than Maester Luwin, in fact, but Howland does not say that out loud.

“So a focus on reading and writing.” Luwin grabbed his pen and quill.

“Yes,” Howland hesitated. “He will probably be behind for those reasons. I recommend he join his little sisters than those his age.”

Luwin found that suggestion amicable. Unbeknownst to Howland, the maester wrote down a note to place Jon with Theon for their history lessons, but kept the maths with Robb. “What about his other pursuits? Can he read the stars? Map drawing or navigation? Medicine?”

“I think he would enjoy the stars. The trees are covered in the Neck so we do not see them unless we venture elsewhere, and even then, they are nothing more to us than pretty decorations. I don’t think he cares much about traveling.” Few crannogmen required knowledge of travel and geography. Their homes took them wherever they needed to be. “And he knows medicine. I trained him myself.”

 Luwin nodded. He thanked Howland for his input, and would arrange something suitable for his son. They would begin their lessons immediately. The maester glanced over to the lord who muttered something in his sleep. Howland walked over to him. He wiped a strand of hair from his face.

Measter Luwin revealed, “He was worried about your reaction, but Lord Stark plans on having a formal presentation for Jon in the coming years. To ensure positive results, he wants to equip Jon with the best possible education. He has the beauty,” Luwin commented. There was nothing perverse about his statement; it was simply an observation. “But knowledge will strengthen his chances for a good marriage.”

The revelation was not surprising to Howland. “Even if Jon is a bastard?”

Luwin sighed. He looked up from his quill and paper to give Howland a tired, almost reprimanding look. “Jon is still the son of the most powerful man in the North, and his mother is a high lord. To be frank, your lineage carries more nobility than some great houses.” The Reeds were descended from kings, unlike the Tullys or the Tyrells who originated from noblemen and cadets. “You may not have the resources to secure a proper dowry, nor is your reputation one to proclaim, but you hold great sway over a region that covers nearly a fifth of the North.”

Howland sat on Ned’s bed. From afar, he took a moment to truly look at Maester Luwin, who had been nothing but civil to him since he arrived in Winterfell twelve years ago. “Where are you from, Maester Luwin?”

Luwin placed a scroll on top of a huge pile of papers. “I am a northerner, Lord Reed. My parents were farmers. They sent me to study at the Citadel when they caught me reading.”

“Are you from Winterfell?”

“No,” he chuckled, and it was the first time Howland heard him laugh. “I come from the Grey Cliffs. I was asked to come here when the previous maester fell ill. Lady Stark—Lord Stark’s mother,” he clarified. “Demanded the Citadel send a northerner to fulfill his position. The Citadel sent over a dozen men, and yet after an hour alone with them, she sent all the men away. I was the first one she allowed to treat her, and Lord Rickard Stark announced that I would be his replacement.”

Howland wished he could have met Ned’s mother, for she sounded fearsome and he enjoyed that. Perhaps, he thought, when Bran mastered his powers, such a spell would not be outside the realm of possibility. Howland found the fatigue from all the planning to be overwhelming. He removed his footwear and announced to Maester Luwin that he planned on joining Ned in rest. If his children came, tell them that they were allowed to do whatever they wish at Winterfell, given that nothing breaks. Luwin shook his head at the sparse limitations but complied. There was something oddly charming about watching the two interact, and he wondered if his latent romantic was surfacing.

-

They slept until the beginning of dusk. Howland was spooned underneath Ned’s chin and Ned held onto him as if he was the last person alive. He woke up seconds earlier to kiss Howland’s hair and mold their bodies together. The sensation made Howland purr. He opened his eyes and for a single moment, and he only saw Ned and Ned only saw Howland.

“It’s time,” Howland reminded him. His voice was so soft it could have been mistaken for a child’s. The moment shattered into a thousand pieces of glass, and it stung with every step. “I have to go home.”

“I know.” He kissed Howland’s shoulder. “That does not mean I have to be happy about it.” It did not mean he would not fight to make Howland regret his return. “The Neck could have been my home.”

“You would have enjoyed it there.” Howland interlaced their hands. “There’s no extravagance except for the most important occasions, and the communities act as one family so you would never be lonely. We kiss each other and hug and make sure all our children know that they are loved.”

Ned grasped onto his hand. “What else?” He asked because there was nothing more potent and painful than the memories that were never had.

Howland kissed their intertwined fingers. “I like to listen to the birds when I wake up. They sing to me with the service of the gods. I am terrified of allowing other people’s hands on the Neck, so I rule almost autonomously. You would have to be our children’s primary caretaker. And though poor and without boars and cows and deer, there are fruits to feast on and jams made of flowers.”

Ned had been there less than a month ago, and he felt the longing as if it had been a decade since he last traveled south. “Beautiful,” he agreed. “Like our son.”

Howland sighed softly. “I would have given you a dozen children and more.”

Ned relished in the dream and pushed it away when the longing overwhelmed him.

-

In the end, their goodbyes ended with little fanfare. Meera cried harder than she ever had before, and Jojen spared more tears than he cried in his lifetime. They talked about all the occasions they could see each other again. “We have three namedays between all three of us, and perhaps we could convince your father to come for mother’s celebration as well!” Meera held onto Jon with the greatest amount of strength.

Ned helped Howland onto his horse. He handed over snacks for him and his children. “I had Gage prepare them beforehand.”

Howland smiled down at the basket. “I will savor every bite.” He looked into Ned’s eyes and asked him not to overwork himself. “Jon is supposed to make you smile, not frown. Do not allow your time together to be filled with misery, but don’t spoil him. I want my child to remain as sweet as honey, not sour like curdled milk.”

Ned agreed to those conditions. Howland kissed him again, and left to talk to his son.

When Ned finished saying goodbye to Howland, he afforded a single hug for Benjen and wished him the best of luck. He asked his younger brother for the same favor. “Take care of Howland for me” and “be there for your children.” Benjen chuckled and asked for the same consideration for his nephew.

“Jon is a good kid.”

“I know,” Ned acknowledged. “When you join the Night’s Watch…you should bring Jon along with you. He has always wanted to see the wall.”

Benjen told him that he planned on bringing all the children. “They’re damn excited for it, too.” He glanced over at the castle walls and reminded Ned that with him at the Watch, he was halfway done. “With me gone, that means Howland’s hand in marriage is open…”

“Benjen,” Ned warned. “I have a wife.”

Benjen only shrugged. “Wives die all the time.”

Before his oldest brother could reprimand him, he strolled over to his black steed and prepared himself for the night’s journey. He waited for Howland to finish his farewell.

Howland gave one last hug and kiss to his eldest son. “Remember what I told you.”

Jon wiped away a tear. “I will.”

“And know that I love you more than life.”

“I do.”

Howland bit his lip to stop himself from crying. The second he released it to give another goodbye, the tears began to flow freely. He embraced his son and his soul refused to let go. “I love you, Jon. We will all miss you dearly.”

Jon sniffled and agreed.

They parted ways and kissed again. Against his lips, Howland told him to go to Robb and fulfill his destiny. “If I catch a sliver of injustice, I will come here and take you home. I promise.” 

Jon said there was no need to fulfill that promise. “Father loves me, as does Robb. They will take care of me.”

Howland grasped onto his child’s cheek. “Sweet boy,” he whispered fondly. “You will become a man before I know it.”

They kissed and said their goodbyes.

With that being said, the Reeds rode on their horses and left the gates of Winterfell. Jon repeated the mantra in his head. He would see them again, and with every passing year, he planned on taking back what was rightfully his. He would not let the new gods that forced his parents apart to gain victory over the old gods again. From afar he could see Robb waiting and ran towards him. Robb wipes away the leftover tears on Jon’s face. He was wracked with strife. Robb held onto him and told him that he would make him feel better. He would make him so happy he would forget they even existed.  

Jon knew that was impossible, but he found the vow reassuring. Robb was the heart, he repeated in his hand. He had his heart. He had Winterfell in his arms, and there was nothing stopping him from setting things right again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you for withstanding the longer than average update. Every chapter will be posted biweekly on Sunday. There will be a timeskip after this chapter of about four years. Thank you all!


	6. Chapter 6

Regardless of longing, Jon was destined to live as a Stark in Winterfell. Following the Reeds departure, he replaced the yearning for his family with the distractions of the far North. He heeded his mother’s advice by immersing himself with the duties of a privileged lordling—riding horses, playing with dolls, learning about the stars and listening to the bird’s calls. He liked to dip his little feet in the black pool and pray to the weirwood; he adored listening to Bran whisper his little spells and incantations when they were alone. He was never good with the other knowledge—that was Jojen’s expertise. He knew how to warm his touch and make his companions more amenable to the truth, but was limited from anything greater. Bran kept his newfound gifts a secret from everybody but his older brother, who was ready with helpful suggestions or a sly hint in the guise of a herb. He was most amused by Arya, whose mind was bursting with schemes. He learned of numerous underground passageways through her tutelage and the secrets of leaving Winterfell undetected for a random burst of horseback riding. Sansa was lovely as well. He enjoyed her innocence, the lighthearted nature of their conversations, how they could speak about fairy tales and princes with such childish glee. His mother never indulged in such whimsy. He spent the least amount of time with the youngest but grew to adore him as well. Rickon craved being held and Jon found solace in the familiar act. Above all, there was Robb. 

And there were no words made my man to describe the passion shared between the two brothers. 

They were lovers, in both the purest and most tainted sense. If they ever found themselves separated by distance, their souls would journey back to each other in an instant. Robb was restless when Jon was not around him. He swore his brother’s presence was near, even when the younger boy was on the other side of the castle. He made excuses to be by his side and skipped lessons with Luwin to cuddle him in their bed. His crimes resulted in lashings and extra lessons, which accumulated each time he left to visit Jon.

When Robb’s rut first arrived, he needed to be restrained by his father’s guards. He demanded Jon’s attention with sharpened fangs and grew ravenous with lust when they were forced apart. The behavior concerned his parents—Catelyn pleaded with Ned to separate their bedrooms until the heated affair was finished. Ned was inclined to agree, but before he could order their temporary estrangement, Jon fell into an early heat. Robb's behavior spiraled out of control. Robb tackled through two guards to get to him and had to be subdued by three. For a twelve-year-old, he was fierce. Jon kept pleading for release and his older brother. In spite of Catelyn’s insistent, Ned refused to acknowledge the connection between the two requests.

“He wishes for comfort—you are an omega. You should understand how the mind muddles the desire for a hearth and a bestial ache."

Catelyn wanted to scream. She settled for a forceful shout. “They are too close! Robb does not see Jon as his brother, but his mate. Your boy has spurred a rut from our son!”

“The nature of the mating cycle is strictly physical. Our bodies choose a compatible partner for breeding, and this, in turn, awakens our ruts. There is nothing sinister about their behavior. Your prejudices lead you to imagine wickedness.  They may see each other as potential mates but once the rut is over with and Jon is cool again, this matter will be settled. We have nothing to fear.”

“Do you hear yourself?” For this, Catelyn groaned. “It will not be long before Robb succumbs to his urges,” His whore, her mind whispered. “Heed my advice, Jon will be bedded and bred before the year ends.”

“That is enough,” Ned warned. “The two of them will be spoken to when their fever subsides. Then, they will be brothers again and your fears will be put to rest.”

“You think because your brother and sister carried no desire for each other that the same policy applies to all who experience the wickedness of incest. Need I remind you of the Targaryen's proclivities?”

Ned glared. “Jon is not a Targaryen, and neither is Robb. They are brothers in blood and spirit. They will not be separated again.”

Lord Stark refused to indulge the matter any further. His wife’s complaints lingered in his mind, and he wrote a letter to his beloved in the Neck. Howland assured him that there were no evils in their affections. He declared that “the nature of a heat and rut derives from the gods’ gift of life—to produce the strongest offspring from the most compatible partners around. Do the dangers of incest not lie in the birthing of monsters?” He declared that Robb and Jon have proven beyond such a consequence. From that, they are above the Targaryeans; a dead breed who followed lost traditions instead of listening to the touch of their souls. The letter assauged his fears, but Catelyn’s voice could still be heard in the back of his head.

Jon’s heat lasted the week. Almost as soon as the boys were bathed and towel dried, Robb came running into Jon’s room. He immersed himself with the scent of his beloved. His skin lingered with the promised of budded snowdrops and a clean sheet of ice, and he smelled deliciously untouched. Robb made sure to spread his dominance all over his younger brother with kisses and squeezes upon the giggling the boy.

Jon giggled and accepted the affection as a habitual greeting. He showcased his submission through his neck. He preened when Robb growled and attacked it with love bites. They tumbled into Jon’s remaining sheets—the rest were taken away for a good wash.

Ned arrived while the two were snuggled against each other. Robb was hidden underneath the covers. He was not finished decorating Jon’s chest. He ordered the two’s attention, and the boys immediately (and reluctantly) followed their father’s order. Robb popped up from the sheets with a grimace.

“With your fever subsiding, it is my duty as your father to produce boundaries…” He began. The lecture was standard. Luwin, who had trained under several maesters at several houses, was privy to some of the best and worst discussions regarding the issue. He advised Lord Stark that a simple conversation was best, and to keep it short for their attention spans were limited. Ned agreed, and his drollness was met with bored gazes and obedient agreements. Before Ned could leave the room, the two returned to their playtime. He would give the two a day’s rest, before having them returned to their studies.

For the following years, Jon’s heats continued to synchronize with Robb’s ruts. Catelyn's complaints were commonplace, her pleas were endless but Ned could not separate them. When he tried, once, to return Robb’s old room, Jon fell into a terrible depression and Robb was furious. He acted out in the worst way, by refusing his lessons and threatening to abdicate his position. Normally, Ned would not allow such immaturity, but he was weak to Jon’s pretty eyes begging for his brother. The combine torture led him to never suggest such a thing again, much to the dismay of his wife. Instead, they refurbished the quarantine area for the future, and while the notion upset the Stark heir, it was better than an utter removal from his little brother’s life.

Nature decreed that Robb Stark was a man, and like a boy, he took advantage of his maturity to reach new heights with his little brother. He grew bold—he transcended beyond their kisses in the dark. His tyranny began with experiments using Jon’s heat supplies and missing objects from the kitchen. He enjoyed watching Jon squirm with a particularly large phallic tool thrust in him, be it a heat stick or a gourd the size of Robb’s arm. He made Jon give him a show; a reward for whenever he bested an older boy in swordsmanship or scored particularly well on an exam. There was no greater pleasure than watching his little brother rub his clit while moaning Robb's name. When he was bored, he made Jon suck his fingers clean and lick the precum off his cock.  Before long, he inserted himself into Jon’s mouth and filled his throat with cum.

Robb’s daring grew with every secret act and it took all of Jon’s strength to keep his brother’s lusts satisfied. His reminders were beginning to fall on deaf ears. Jon's willpower crumbled. During their trysts, Robb made him feel so good. It became difficult to be the voice of reason when the taunting of sin was so persuasive.

Their risks accumulated until they became reckless with locked doors. Fifteen and as brazen as brothel master, Robb was insatiable.  During one of their engagements, Theon barged in. With the speed of a mountain cat, Robb dashed underneath the covers, leaving an unnoticeable bump between Jon’s legs. Theon only saw a bundle of furs. 

“Jon, you must talk to your father!”

Jon squeaked from shock. He tried to settle his nerves. “About what, Theon—humph!” He covered his gasp in time for Theon to disregard his discomfort. Robb had pardoned Jon's pants. His underwear was being removed. He could feel his older brother’s tongue inside him.

Theon jumped onto the bed. He moaned, dramatic as a sailor's wife. “About my presentation ceremony. My fertility glass is waning! If I do not have one soon, I will die an old maid!”

Robb licked his clit with fervor. He was sloppy—like a dog—and the juices were pouring out. Jon bit back a moan. Robb was eating his cunt like he was made of cream.

“Theon…hmm! Theon, you are only…ha…eighteen. You are far from an old maid.”

“Eighteen and still unmarried might as well be. There are omegas with child as soon they experience their first heat. I should have had a ceremony by now. I should be married. Your mother said it himself; I am the son of a traitor. If not for my noble blood and beauty,” Theon was obsessed with his appearance, “I would hardly be considered a great match. My family lacks the means for a suitable dowry, even with Lord Stark’s assistance. I need a ceremony. I needed one years ago.” He laid on the bed. The movement caused Robb’s tongue to reach a particularly deep spot. Jon moaned.  

Theon’s attention peaked. “What is the matter?”

“I…” Jon tried to come up with the words. “I can talk to my father. But I cannot promise anything.”

Theon grinned. “That’s why I came up with a plan. I was thinking you could ask for a joint ceremony.”

“What?”

Robb’s grip tightened around his thigh. He touched Jon’s inner spot in vengeance. Jon cried out ‘no’ before he could stop himself.

Theon crawled over to the younger omega. From the distance, he looked predatory. “It’s disgraceful for a high lord to give so much preference to a bastard child—even one of a high lord.” Theon was never soft with his words. He was an ironborn, after all. “But two ceremonies for the price of one? That’s perfect! He’ll have an excuse to give us the grandeur we need without losing face. I’ll have the beautiful ceremony I deserve with all the finest lords at my beck and call, and you will…well, you’ll get the attention for future reference. My spoils can be yours.”

Jon snuck his hand below the sheets to control Robb’s furious pounding. “I suppose so, but I…”

“Oh, I know you’re not looking for a mate. Like I said, this will be for me.” He stared deep into Jon’s eyes. This time, he was pleading. “Jon, I beg of you. I need to get married. I am starving for a cock.” Jon blushed furiously at the confession. “I’ve wanted to be mated forever, but the lords here prize a maidenhood on their omegas. I touch myself every hour that I can but it does stop the aching. I am so hot down there I can light a fire. Could you imagine how hard it is to control yourself when there are so many, viable, lustful alphas in the world?”

Jon understood too well. He said nothing and Theon took the silence as a denial.

“Well, one day you will. Please, Jon, for me.”

Jon came all over Robb’s face. He whimpered his agreement.

Theon was ecstatic. He left the room, but not before giving Jon a reprimand for not taking care of his health. He was looking absolutely feverish.

With Theon’s departure, Robb arose from the covers. He glared straight into Jon’s soul and could sense his shame. He stuck his fingers into Jon’s supple ass and bit his nipple. “It seems I need to remind you about keeping your promises.”

Jon shut his eyes. “Please, you know who my heart belongs to," he pleaded. 

“I do,” Robb growled. “But you’re not the one I worry about.”

Jon’s teeth clench onto the sheets. He would need a great deal of time to compose himself after Robb was done disciplining him.

-

Hours later, Jon was released to his father’s arms. Robb was ruthless. He marked enough places on Jon’s skin that one would suspect a leech infestation in his room. Sansa’s high-collared dresses and shawls were godsends.

Jon knocked on the door to his father’s. Lord Stark appeared fatigued when he opened them but that was quickly replaced with regard when he saw Jon’s shy expression. He invited his darling boy inside and lifted him onto the bed. Jon took the initiative to kiss his father’s lips and burrow into his chest. He loved his father’s smell—like cedar musk, iced pines, and weirwood soil. Earthly, his mother described with such fondness. Lord Reed would keep baskets of dried tree droppings in his room to remind him of his one true love.

“What do you need Jon?” His father asked, with a hopeful yes attached to the answer.

Jon fiddled with his dress. He found the notion more embarrassing when confronted. “Um…father, I…talked to Theon recently.”

Ned prepared himself for a headache. He loathed the days where Theon’s advice infiltrates his sweet boy’s mind.

“He’s worried about his prospective matches. And…he suggests a presentation ceremony might help him acquire a match.”

Ned figured there was a reason the Greyjoy had been on his best behavior. He did not understand why the older boy had to drag his son into it.

“He fears you won’t give him one for himself—maybe even consider it a waste of resources.”

Ned frowned. The thought annoyed him for a number of reasons. Was Theon so detached from his family that he did not consider the affection Lord Stark have for him? Was Howland right when he suggested he instill loyalty instead of honor? He wished to defend himself. Truthfully, he was not entirely convinced that Theon wanted to make a permanent home of the North.

“…Theon suggested we share a presentation ceremony.”

“What?” Ned was taken back.

Jon looked away. The advice sounded silly in his ears. “I mean, it makes sense. Theon wants to get married, and I can’t stay here forever…”

Why not? Ned thought, aghast. He stifled his narcissism. He was beginning to sound like the children—petulant without the means to let go. “Do you want a presentation ceremony? To…to get married?”

Jon shook his head. He blushed, for he was sure his proposal looked more foolish than ever if he did not believe in its legitimacy. “I…” He took a deep breath and answered honestly. “I want to stay here at Winterfell. I want to be with you and Robb forever.”

The declaration touched Ned and he embraced his beloved child. His size reminded him of Howland, how delicately he would fit into Ned’s arms and yet never lose his innate fierceness. Ah, what a stunning child he produced. Ned kissed Jon’s forehead and promised to organize something for the two boys. A presentation ceremony meant everyone would see Jon, and perhaps, Ned could arrange a union where his precious son could relocate to nearby lands. There were plenty of lords with second or third sons privy to the suggestion of having their own holdfast or being in personal service to a high lord.

Yes, he thought, proud of his own ingenuity, he would not lose his son again.

-

Lord Stark was late to dinner. When he arrived, he did not hesitate to make the official announcement. “Winterfell will be hosting a conjoined presentation ceremony for Theon and Jon. I’ve spoken to Maester Luwin and we can arrange the celebration to occur in a fortnight and send invitations tomorrow.” 

Everyone was surprised by the suddenness of the situation, especially Jon. Tactfully, he asked,  “Is that not too soon? Will the lords not be upset by the abruptness?”

Ned shook his head. “We have checked our calendars. Two weeks gives all the lords enough time to get their affairs in order, and has the highest turnout we could hope for. There are no pressing namedays to account for.”

Robb clenched Jon’s thigh and growled his disapproval in his ear. In opposition, Theon grinned; he was ecstatic at getting what he wanted. Jon remained forlorn. Lord Stark saw his reluctance and reassured him that this was just to field the offers. Marriage was not a possibility for him—a notion to which Theon protested and was quickly reminded, “unless a prized union can be found.”

Lady Stark was amenable to the idea. There was a bit of hop in her movements—she did not even care that she was not consulted within the matter. “Let us hope you both find yourselves promising lords. I wish you the best.” This was not a lie. If Ned found a young man worthy of his precious son, he would not let the lord get away. A betrothal would be arranged before the ink dried. Then, Catelyn would no longer have to linger in the uncertainty of the bastard’s departure.

Robb sensed his mother’s thoughts, but Jon’s tiny sway into his hold assuaged his concerns. He wrapped his arm around Jon’s shoulder. He knew the ceremony was coming—his father would never spare a cent towards Jon’s happiness. He composed himself and shared her sentiments. “I agree. Theon, I wish you nothing but the best. Let us hope we can find a lord to handle you.”

Theon laughed and threw a pea at him in protest.

Jon kissed Robb’s cheek as a reward for his good behavior.

Catelyn shivered. Her skin crawled whenever there was a display of affection between the two of them.

The kids were less convinced of the positivity in the news. Since they did not have foresight into the matter, they unleashed their concerns. “Does this mean that Jon is leaving us?” Arya asked. “That cannot be true! He only just came!”

Catelyn wanted to point out that it had been the longest three years of her life, but she kept silent. Instead, she told Arya that if Jon found brighter pastures elsewhere, she, as his sister, should be happy for him.

Arya crossed her arms and ignored the sentiment. “Jon is a Stark. He should be here with us.”

Sansa denied, partially to be contrary. “Jon is an omega. He needs to marry and extend his husband's line. He will not stay with us forever. Stop being a child.” Her mouth twitched downwards. Her words did nothing to convince her of her own hesitancy.  “We will miss you, of course. I hope you can visit us.”

Jon shut down all of their fears. “It is just a ceremony! I am not leaving!” He huffed his disapproval. “I am only having the ceremony as tradition. I doubt I will find someone to marry in a night. I am afraid you are all stuck with me for much longer.” The children giggled, and Rickon, a toddler, cheered.

As true as the statement was, Catelyn could not help but hope. His words satisfied her children’s apprehensions and that was enough for her not to linger in her disappointment. She did not need to stir up the pot any more than she already has.

 “We shall see,” Catelyn quipped, her final words, and returned to her meal.

Robb took a few more bites, before stating his surfeit. Jon was worried, for he knew the look in Robb’s eyes and regretted his part in this arrangement at all. When their father gave permission to Robb to leave, Jon followed shortly after. The young man, to say the least, was not happy.

“Robb, you knew father was going to agree! He…”

“He loves you, so he’ll do what he thinks is best for you,” Robb finished. “He completely disregards what I know is best for you.” He punched the wall. Jon winced.

“Are you so hot?”

Robb’s eyes blazed. “In front of me, I had to listen to my father discuss mating my beloved to another alpha! Tell me if any other would withstand such an insult? I have given you great patience.”

“Robb…” Jon sighed. “I can take care of myself.” He reached out for his brother, but the heir grabbed his hand and slammed him against the surface. Robb pushed him further into a corner when they heard footsteps in the hall. When the serving girl left, Robb captured Jon’s lips. He slipped his hands underneath Jon’s skirt and fondled the perfect ass. His hole felt nice and slippery. Jon leaned back onto the fingers. He loved the sensation of being filled.

When he released Jon’s lips, he mouthed his little brother’s neck. “Perhaps, it’s time I made you mine for good…”

Jon’s eyes widened. The pleasure retreated with the arrival of common sense. He pushed his older brother away. “Robb! Your jealousy has made you foolish! You are endangering us both if you get me pregnant! Do you not love me enough to hold back your lusts?”

Robb swore a storm. He kicked the stone wall and ignored the pulsing in his toes. Jon moved to stop him from punching the boulders and breaking his fist. “I don’t understand why I should wait! I’ve waited long enough! Three years! Three years of allowing men to rip me out of your arms! Of hearing you cry for my seed and not being able to father a child in you! I won’t let another man take you! You are mine, Jon!”

“I know, but I don’t trust the tansy,” Jon revealed. “The crannogmen use different herbs than those here. Because of the Andals, those that sing stopped sharing the seeds. I would...” Jon paused. An idea came to mind; one he was surprised never came to fruition sooner. He came closer to Robb and wrapped his arms around the Stark heir. He pecked Robb’s lips and fiddled with the teen’s trousers. “I would have to ask my mother to bring them when he visits," he muttered. 

Robb, who was consumed with his jealousy, did not notice the change in mood. He mumbled great profanities and kissed back roughly. “I will kill anybody who lays a hand on you. Whether you give your consent or not.”

Jon sighed breathily. He enjoyed Robb’s possessive nature, if not for the glorious pleasure he received afterward, then for the protective gaze he enraptured Jon in. “Of course, and that would be your right.” Jon thought of what to say next. “You are to be the Lord of Winterfell, Robb. For one to disobey your order would mean committing treason against the whole North. A most grave offense.”

Robb nodded. He patted Jon’s backside and the younger boy snuggled against his chest. Jon looked up at his brother through his dark, long lashes and wide gray eyes and asked if Robb would be merciful. “The gods are generous to those who wait.”. He stood on his tiptoes and whispered in Robb’s ear, “If my mother gets a letter from me, asking for the herbs to prevent a child, I could be free from the burden.”

Robb’s eyes widened. “Tell me you do not jest.”

Jon smiled. He pulled the strings of Robb’s pants apart and sneaked his hands inside so that he could grasp Robb’s cock. He was so big and heavy in Jon’s hands. He leaked all over. Jon’s throat would be sore for days after getting thrust with that monster. “Unfortunately, the herbs take several days to take effect.”

Less time, if a spell is attached. Jon had too much sense to reveal that tidbit of information. “If the future Lord of Winterfell is patient and well behaved, his little brother would be inclined to…open up for him.” Jon made slow, painfully arousing strokes. His pussy got wetter with every touch. “I could let you inside me—and you can come, over and over again.”

Robb groaned and with a powerful thrust into Jon’s hands, he made a puddle in his palms. The cum overflowed and Jon released the member in order to collect his treat. Tantalized by the milk, he slurped up the remains on his hands. Robb’s youth held no chance to the image. His cock hardened with every finger being licked clean. “You little tart,” he accused.

Jon, who was immersed in his meal, looked up with a cream filled face. He was dragged away by the wrist and sent straight to his room where Robb literally threw the younger boy down.  Robb undressed his bottoms where a semi-hard cock fluttered in Jon’s face. Jon gulped at the increasing size. He swore Robb grew an inch in width since last month. He licked his lips.

“Get it wet, little brother,” commanded his lord. “You need to ease the way for that gorgeous cunt of yours.”

The crannogmen feared the redness in his face would never go away. Instead, Jon leaned forward and relaxed his throat as much as he possibly could to accommodate the bulging cock. He whimpered when he realized Robb was still a growing boy. In a few years, Robb would be as big as their father.

-

After having his way, Theon was bustling with energy. He spent most of his time caged up in his bedroom, adjusting the bodice of his dress to make it as sluttish as possible without appearing slovenly. He wanted embroidery and lace, and no matter how many complaints the septa gave towards the cut of his dress, he heeded no one’s advice but his own. When he was finished, he told Jon that there was not an alpha alive that could resist him.

“The front of the dress dips to here,” he explained. “And I didn’t want to seem too eager—it makes an omega look desperate, so I kept the lining and made the sleeves longer than necessary.”  Jon listened and nodded absentmindedly to show his involvement. He could barely speak. His throat hurt from last night. “What will you be wearing?”

Jon strategically gulped down his water.

Theon rolled his eyes while he waited.

“One of Sansa’s old dresses,” Jon croaked out. “I don’t want to catch anybody’s attention.”

“Don’t worry,” Theon waved him off. “Once they see me, they won’t even look at you.”

Theon’s words did little to daunt Robb’s initial concerns. If anything, he was affronted on Jon’s behalf. Jon carried no ill will to Theon. He knew the boy was acting out. Most omegas got their presentation ceremony as soon as their first heat. At most, high-born lords tended to wait a year or two to build up the momentum. Jon hated the politics outside the Neck. He had not thought much of Theon’s age, but the implications became known to him soon enough.

Theon received his heat when he was fourteen. That was four years ago. He should be selecting potential mates by now, not just announcing his availability. As per tradition, he would have to wait at least two years to collect his offers. Anything less smelled of desperation.  Each upcoming year meant that Theon was older, and therefore his desirability went down and his dowry would increase.

Jon leaned against Robb’s shoulder. He was tired. Theon moved on to the next willing partner: the eager Sansa who jumped at the chance to join an adult’s conversation—even if it was just clothes. Her skin turned to the color of hair when Theon became purposely explicit, but she withstood it for the chance to prove her maturity. Here she was, a girl of eleven and already discussing marriage and mating.

Truth be told, his father had offered to purchase him a new dress for the ceremony. Jon dismissed the offer. “The event is for Theon. He would be heartbroken if I attended wearing a new dress while he had to remake his old ones,” Jon made sure to sound as saccharine as sugar for his next statement. “If I never marry, I would be just as happy living at Winterfell and taking care of you in your old age, father.”

Ned kissed his little boy. Again, he was envious of the crannogmen and their breeding of sweet boys and girls who adored affection and shunned needless cruelty. When they parted from their embrace, Jon declared that he could not wait to see his beloved mother.   

“It will be like having a nameday. I’ll have you and mother and all my siblings together again.” He sighed dreamily. “As it should be.”

Ned’s eyes soften at the last remark. He kissed his son and shooed him away. The ravens were coming by the dozens. He had work to do. On his way to Theon and Robb, he passed Lady Stark whom he was careful not to make eye contact with. The woman ignored him with the same amount of chilliness.

Her meeting with his father was probably the reason for her absent at the dining table. Jon shivered when he remembered the pressure of her presence. In response to the drop in temperature, he snuggled up closer to his brother.  The room was cold. Robb suggested he return to his bedroom, and Jon sleepily agreed. They both got up and said goodbye to their siblings. Theon whined about the joint action. “You don’t need to follow him wherever he goes! If he takes a piss, I bet you’re watching.”

Robb scowled and told the older boy to mind his own business.

Jon giggled and pointed out that he needed to relieve himself.

“Well, I’ll just wait for you.”

Everyone in the room erupted into giggles and Robb flushed a shade worthy of a Tully. Maester Luwin interrupted their jests when he arrived. “I’m afraid Jon will be doing the waiting, Robb. You have to make up your studies.”

Robb winced. “I thought I completed them all.”

“Ah yes, I’m sure that is what you thought when you left your scrolls on the table but remembered your cloak on the other side of the room.”

“I was afraid Jon would get cold,” Robb mumbled. He groaned in defeat. Before he left, he spared a kiss on top of Jon’s lips. “Expect me soon.”

“Of course,” Jon agreed. He tried his best to sound exasperated, but could not fight his grin. Robb was in a pleasant mood today. Cheeriness was the foreshadowing of foreplay, which Jon’s toes curled for. Nonetheless, he had a few minutes before Robb was done. If he spent his time with his siblings, he would go over the allocated amount and Robb would be upset. He took the solitary route and decided to make a quick stop to his father’s study to ask if he would be coming to dinner.

There, he overheard his father and Lady Stark speaking.

“The number of reservations are on the verge of overwhelming,” Lady Stark pointed out. Jon wondered why she sounded so breathless and blissed. She thought any attention towards Jon was too much attention, positive or otherwise.

“We’ve gotten some requests from the South to attend. I am inclined to deny them.”

“Why?” Lady Stark shuffled through the papers. She picked out one that carried a sigil from the Reach—Jon could not remember the exact one. “This one is from the Lord Tarly. A warrior of great means. He is offering to send his oldest son here! I thought you’d wanted Jon to be taken care of.”

Ned would never send his son so far away. That, however, wasn’t the concern. “Lord Tarly is one of the greatest martial minds I’ve ever met and he is one of the cruelest. I will not let my child be in his presence.” He sighed. “Catelyn, let us not play games. We know the purpose behind this southern interest.”

The room muted with the silence.

Lady Stark frowned. “I suppose we should get it over with.” She placed the letters on the table and took a seat. Jon was in awe of the transformation from a needling wife to a shrewd politician.

“Robb is a man now—it is about time we spoke about marriage.” She drank from her goblet, but no more than a sip of wine. It was an act—a small display to suppress the solemnity of the issue. “Because he is our heir, we need not be hasty. The Tyrells have yet to wed their eldest and he will be thirty before the next winter.”  

Jon’s stomach dropped. He waited for his father to point out that a rut meant nothing. Jon had his first heat ages ago and he was still a baby in his father’s eyes. Yet the denial never came. Instead, Ned agreed with his lady wife.

“They know we will wait. They are hoping to catch his eye now so that when it is time, they’ll already have a foot in the door.”

“Or a man in position to strike,” Catelyn was merciless in her metaphors. “I doubt it is not only an act. The gods know how much Robb loves his little brother. I'm sure one of many maids have already sent their gossip to their relatives working in the other houses. If they secure a union with one of their younger alphas to Jon, it will make it easier to secure another alliance in the future.”

“Aye, Lord Manderly and Lord Umber have been waiting for this moment as long as I have been dreading it.” The last time he met with them, they were badgering him on details of Jon’s ceremony. They sent their reservations right away. Lord Umber will be sending two of his younger sons and one of his daughters. Lord Manderly was sending both his granddaughters—conveniently an alpha and an omega.

Lady Stark looked away. “I assume you do not wish to cater to the south.”

Ned sighed. He did not mean to insult his wife, but he refused to lie. “I want my children near me, even when I am gone.” He hesitated. “I will not deny the Southern lords entry, but I want to make it clear that any foul play with my omega son will have dire consequences. Robb and Jon should have the opportunity to marry for love.”

“Unlike you.”

Ned stayed silent. Catelyn took a much longer gulp. She felt like she needed it more than anyone. 

“I want our son to be happy as well. He should have choices. Even if you do not heed my advice so highly, at least acknowledge that the more families that come, the more choices your children will have in the future.” Catelyn paused. “While not of great means, Lord Reed’s beauty is renown and he is of royal blood. If one is particularly superstitious of such matters, Jon will have no hardship finding a mate.”

Ned knew this but thanked Catelyn for the compliment.

Catelyn shook her head. “I am merely stating a fact. I will not lie and say I am not eager to see him go.”

Jon’s heart dropped at the confession, though he already knew it to be true. It was one of the many things said in the conversation that made Jon’s heart pound apprehension and his soul bleed sorrows. He could not bear to hear any more and dashed back to his room. Being alone with his insecurities was the worst possible outcome, but he feared he had no other choice.

Ned thought he heard something at his door. When he saw that it was nothing, he returned to his seat. As he did so, Catelyn asked him why he never asked the king to legitimize Jon. King Robert would surely grant it.

“I have wanted to ask you since we married, but I felt it was not my place.” Truthfully, she did not want to give him any ideas. At this point, however, it became clear to her that Ned had thought of it. Legitimizing Jon would give him a plethora of new opportunities, and may even secure a marriage with a first born alpha—albeit of a lesser family.

Ned shook his head. “I've considered it. But Howland refused to ask the king for any favors. He believes that any acknowledgment of a royal decree was an admittance of servitude.”

“Does he hate the kind so much that he would subject his son to bastardy?”

“Howland does not see Jon’s situation as sinful.” Oh, and Catelyn’s heart wept at the fond smile. Ned was so blindingly in love with that man, she wished herself gone from this world. “Howland used to say there was nothing more Northern than ice and the most beautiful ice was softened to become Snow. Our son is a Northerner. He is beautiful and kind and will accomplish more than I could ever dream. I want to believe him.” Ned returned to his documents. He told Catelyn that the following week shall be very busy. He requested that she not interrupt him unless the news was crucial.

Catelyn bowed her head and left Ned alone to sort out his papers.

-

Robb was exhausted after his lessons. He cursed the gods when his arms were filled with an eager Jon, ready to be ravished. The boy was relentless. He practically tore off his brother’s pants and almost ripped the buttons off his shirt. When he was done, he dragged Robb to his bed.

“I’ve been waiting forever!” Jon climbed on top of Robb and sucked on his neck and kissed his lips like they were made out of chocolates and cherries. Robb moaned, but as hard he tried, he could not lift a finger. Jon ground his hips and asked Robb what he wanted tonight.

“My throat is still sore from yesterday. You fucked it really hard. I’m so stretched out there.” He laughed and leaned in for another kiss. “I could use my hands. You like it when I’m covered in cream, don’t you?”

Oh gods, he did. There was nothing more arousing than seeing Jon’s curls drenched in his cum. He loved how his mouth looked with it pouring out of his mouth because it was too much to swallow.

“Maybe, I could put your cock between my breasts. They’ve gotten so big since you last played with them.” He took Robb’s hands and encouraged him to squeeze. Robb groaned. It was like milking a cow. He couldn’t get enough of those handfuls. Despite what his cock desire, he found himself empty of energy and dropped his hands to his sides.

Jon frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“Fuck, Jon. It’s nothing. I’m just tired. Give me a moment and I will be ready to…” Robb yawned before he could finish his sentence. “Sorry, Maester Luwin said he might never get another chance to get me alone so he…got out my old lessons…and had me…” He yawned again. “I tried to finish all of them in one go so I would have time for you but…”

Jon rolled his eyes. Leave it to his older brother to work himself to death for sexual favors and then not have the energy to perform. He got off Robb and was about to get dressed when he had an idea. “Well, maybe you need a break.”

Robb was about to deny the suggestion when he felt Jon lift up his head to rest on a stack of pillows. Once Robb was properly seated upward, Jon opened up his top to reveal his perky nipples and lifted up his skirt to show off his pulsing pussy and cock.

“What are you…”

Jon stuck two fingers into his pussy. He churned them inside of him and felt the juices dripping out. He moaned and bit his lip to keep the noise down.

Robb groaned. “Jon, you are killing me.”

Jon pretended not to hear and he bit his lip harder to hide his smirk. He used his other hand to rub his cock while he thrusted his fingers into his cunt. The squelching noises echoed in the room. Jon whimpered. “Robb…Robb…”

“Fuck Jon.” Robb was breathless. “…You…try putting another finger inside you. I want to see you stretch around them.”

Jon complied and added a third finger. His hands were smaller than Robb’s, and even three fingers paled in comparison to Robb’s two. Robb told him to add four. Jon was so fucking obedient.  He added in the four fingers and nearly screamed.

Robb’s cock hardened. He imagined his size was bigger than Jon’s fist when knotted. Young and fearless, he told Jon that if really wanted to practice for his cock, he needed to use his entire hand. Robb mustered all the energy he could to crawl over to Jon and whisper in his ear.

“You’re so small, Jon.” He replaced the hand on Jon’s cock with his own and moved it to feel his. “Can you feel how big I’ve gotten for you? I’m going to fill you so well. I’m going to stuff you raw.”

Jon kissed Robb. It was the perfect time to add in his entire fist. Robb shoved his tongue so deeply into Jon’s mouth that the sound could only be heard through the vibrations in his throat. Jon came buckets. His cock spluttered a string of cum,and his cunt spasmed.

When they were finished, Jon and Robb returned to their youthful innocence. Robb was lulled into a peaceful slumber and Jon laid next to him, stroking his backside. Before he went to sleep, he asked Jon what his behavior was about.

“I really missed you.”

Robb scoffed. “I miss you, too. But that’s not why you gave me that performance.” He kissed Jon. “I’m not complaining, though.”

Jon fiddled with Robb’s chest. There was a handsome spot of hair growing. Jon liked it. “Well, with my ceremony, there might be a few alphas who show up that father might like. I don’t want to get married, Robb. I want to be with you forever.”

“You won’t get married,” Robb promised. “The only person who will kneel beside you in front of that heart tree is me.”

“That may be so,” Jon agreed. He stifled down his jealousy and told Robb he didn’t want the option to arise. “You are my mate. You belong to me.” He sucked on his ear. “And I figured as your betrothed, I could give you something to look forward to.”

Robb accepted the excuse. They slipped into slumber and prepared themselves for the days to come.

-

That night, Robb woke up before Jon. He was early for dinner so he decided to take a small stroll to recapture his health. While walking down the halls, he met his mother. She seemed pleased with herself and asked how was his nap.

“Good, mother. Thank you for asking.” He paused. “How was your discussion with father?”

Lady Stark’s smile was tight. Robb’s eyes narrowed as he tried to deduce whether or not her confined nature was related to Jon’s peculiar behavior tonight.

“It was quite informative. Your father and I are working very hard for this ceremony.”

“I’m sure you are.” His mother wanted Jon gone, and the best way to ensure such an outcome was to arrange a marriage pact. “Jon is grateful you’ve taken so much care into it.”

“It is my duty, as will be his one day for his children.” Lady Stark reminded. As a mother, she made it her mission to remind Robb of Jon’s temporary status. She did not want him to get attached—not to someone who was never meant to stay. Robb adored his mother. Would kill and die for her—but she would rue the day she dared to control his and Jon’s love. “There will be plenty of important alphas coming to this ceremony and many of them have eligible omega children. You should keep an eye out for a prospective wife.” She smiled. “Only the eyes, though.”

Robb chuckled at the joke, not because of the humor but for the notion that Robb could have eyes for anyone but his brother. “I am quite satisfied as a bachelor. This ceremony is for Theon. I don’t want to draw any attention away from him.”

Lady Stark’s smile tightened again. “And Jon.”

“What?”

“The ceremony. It is for Jon as well.”

Robb brushed off his nerves. He was a fool to think his mother would not catch that. “Yes, yes for Jon as well.”

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed. “You do realize Jon will have to marry one day? He cannot stay here forever.”

He’d be a fool not to, but Robb knew better than to smart mouth his mother. He could not afford to bring suspicion into their relationship—not any more than he already has. “Marriage is the farthest thing from Jon’s mind. But if it is what he wants, I could never deny him anything.”

Catelyn bore her son only skepticism. “You realize you will have to marry one day as well, don’t you? A match for the good of the family.”

“I am the heir. Of course, I know I need to marry.” Robb shrugged, and he was seconds too late to realize how his nonchalance angered his mother. He straightened his back but it was too late. His mother was staring, a purse in her lips and offense in her eyes. His father’s son, Robb was not a politician. He had no words to save him. “Mother, I understand I have to produce an heir—but marriage is sacred. I want a union of souls, not an alliance of law. Father wants that for us.”

“You are the scion of one of the greatest families in Westeros. You need your name to prosper.”

“Starks rarely wed outside the North to great success and prosperity. What good has southern matches brought to our family?”

“And I suppose you regret my presence as well?”

Robb grew frustrated. “That is not what I meant. You are my mother. I love you but—”

“But I am not the Lady Stark the North deserves.”

“No!” Robb denied.

Lady Stark shook her head. “My head grows ill. You have said your piece, Robb. I have said mine.”

“Mother, I did not mean to offend you.”

“I hope you are on your best behavior when the lords come.” She hesitated before moving down the hall. “I hope you find the love you deserve.”

“Mother, be reasonable—”

Lady Stark stopped in the middle of her tracks. She turned around and touched her son’s cheek. At fifteen, Robb was already half a head taller than her. She regretted losing him so soon. “You are my son. You will make a wonderful Lord Stark—perhaps the best. You deserve more than a castle in the North and a title filled with barren land. Do not mistake my ambitions for greed. I wish you the love and respect. Things your father lost and I never received from our marriage.”

With a great sigh, she kissed her son’s cheek and pardoned herself. As he watched her walk away, he told his mother that he loved her. “Mother, you must know that.”

She shook her head. “I know.”

That did not mean he did not love others more.  

-

As promised, all the ravens were sent out by the middle of the week. They stopped receiving them at the same time. Lord Stark was notably disagreeable to last minute arrivals and made it clear he would refuse any unannounced visitors short of the king.

When the day came, Winterfell was decorated with notable regality despite its definitive austerity. The Starks were all there to greet the incoming lords and ladies. Sansa was especially excited for the preview of her own ceremony. The turnabout was quite successful and Jon reassured her that her presentation would be doubly effective.

“You are the eldest daughter,” Jon informed.

Sansa giggled at her fortune. She let Jon decorate her hair with flowers and scent her red locks with leftover lemons. Then, they walked to the front together. There was more resignation than excitement in his march. She knew he did not want to marry, but she hoped he could muster an ounce of excitement for the alphas. They made such a hard journey after all.

Before they left for the courtyard, Sansa made her concerns known.  Jon shook his head and told her that he would be on his best behavior. “I don’t want to get their hopes up.”

“If you gave them a chance, you could fall in love,” The eleven dreamed wistfully. “Some of these men are quite nice. Lord Karstark sent me a lovely necklace for my nameday last year.”

“Lord Karstark has his own ambitions,” Jon muttered. He overheard nee eavesdropped and learned that the lord’s omega daughter was accompanying her brother for the ceremony. Nonetheless, he smiled to relieve Sansa of her doubt.

The two walked hand in hand and stood next to each other for the greetings. There were at least two dozen household members prepared to lead the guests to their accommodations and twice as many alphas ready to man the horses and carriages.

Theon’s excitement was all nerves at this point. Jon held his hand for comfort. The boy’s breath became steady once more and he sent Jon a grateful look. The men and women all came with jovial grins and blatant intent in their eyes. Most Northerners were not suited for politics. They kissed Theon and Jon’s hands, sent their regards to Lord Stark, and eyed Robb’s adulthood with ill-disguised aspirations.

Lord Manderly was flamboyant in his entrance. The litter that carried him strained to do so but he paid them and his mockery no heed. Once on foot, he stomped towards Lord Stark and pulled him into a warm embrace. Many were aggravated by the blatant affection.

“Ned, my boy, every year I see you, you come out looking more and more like your father,” he praised. He patted the Warden of the North on the back as if he were a child and laughed loud enough to shake the ground. Ned was silent. “Ah, but there’s your mother’s fierceness. That woman never liked me—I was too southern for her liking. Did you know what she used to call me?”

“No, Lord Manderly,” Ned replied diplomatically. His mother had few kind words for anybody. He tried to retain his authoritative stance, but Lord Manderly was his father’s peer. When he was a boy, the man was one of the fiercest warriors the North had to offer. It saddened him to see him such a deprecating state, but Howland quickly assuaged his concerns. “That man sleeps on silver. He is the last person to be pitied.”

Lord Manderly laughed again. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be able to repeat what she said. The kindest thing I’ve ever been called by her? ‘The tolerable southerner.’ Of course, it was good practice. I am made of steel now.” He winked at the younger man and moved on to the prospective brides. Ned sighed in relief. There was something about being near his father’s friends that made him a boy again.

From Lord Manderly’s men, two young girls came off horseback. They were enchanting in a way that the North and South were unfamiliar to, but for Jon, reminded him of home. The older of two had long brown hair worn in a braid adorned with pearls. She was an alpha. The second carried a shorter, similar braid with garish green hair. She was an omega and carried a feistiness her sister did not have. Both girls wore gloves.

Lord Manderly sent a knowing grin and wink towards Jon when he caught him looking. Though Jon was adamant not to accept any advances, he was sincerely entertained.  

“I would like to introduce my two granddaughters. My brilliant Wynafryd, the alpha daughter of my eldest and heir to the Manderly house, and Wylla, the apple of my eye and the tartness of my pie.” He sent a sly look towards Robb before returning to Jon. “Words cannot describe how happy I am to make your acquaintance. I’ve wanted a marriage alliance with your mother for some time. My wife was friends with your grandfather. When she left the Neck to marry me, she dreamed of the day our families could unite.”

From afar, a Ryswell boy coughed about his thoughts of the brown nosing. Wylla glared in a manner that requested a fight but her sister kept her calm. Wynafryd stepped forward. She thanked Lord Stark for his generosity in housing them and for bringing their attention to such a gorgeous omega.

Then, out of nowhere, she kissed Jon. The world fell silent. One alpha asked if that was allowed. Jon could feel Robb’s anger radiating off him. Yet, he did not push her away for the greeting was common where he was from. Where he was _truly_ from.

 “I hope that we become well acquainted,” she spoke when they parted.

Jon gasped. All at once, he was overwhelmed with the richness of bells and the flutter of his heart added to the symphony in his mind. She could speak _it_.

She knew the True Tongue.

“My grandmother taught me before she passed away. Grandfather encouraged our usage—he said that no matter the discrimination we faced, we should never forget our lineage. That is why he is so desperate to marry a crannogmen.” She took his hand into her gloved one. “We are quite a prosperous family. Should we not extend our goodwill to those who need it the most?”

Jon was taken back by the insinuation. She was not holding back at all. Her grandfather looked proud. From afar, he could see the other guests watch them. Some of the omegas were staring appreciatively, though they could not hear a word. Jon forgot the other reason families sent their omegas to these events—they got to scope out the competition while seeking out opportunities if they miss their original target.

As long as no alpha boys were born, Wynafryd was set to inherit the lands and titles of the richest family (sans the Starks themselves) in the North. She was beautiful and dressed to kill with her low neckline and thin skirt. Jon was sure he felt something quite impressive when they kissed. Bold in a manner that was not shameless, loyal to her family, and aware of the crannogmen ways. If he was not so maddeningly in love with Robb, she was someone he’d consider being with.

Robb knew this and immediately went to his side. “We are happy to make your acquaintance. Our history with the Manderlys is one of faithfulness and trust. You have honored us with your presence.”  He pulled Jon closer to him. “Perhaps, we should keep the displays of affection to a minimum. We don’t want anybody to suspect my little brother of impurity, do we?”

Jon saw that Lady Wynafryd was no fool. Her eyebrow raised curiously at the display of possession but she had the tact to say nothing. Jon groaned. He would have words with Robb later. The lady excused herself to see the rest of the castle. Her little sister, the potential prospect for Robb, remained unimpressed by the lordling. “With all due respect, Lord Robb, your brother is a crannogmen. _We_ have different tolerances than men like yourself." 

Robb became still as ice. Wylla smiled wickedly. Jon coughed. Wynafryd shook her head in exasperation. Their grandfather would not have much luck securing that Stark alliance as much as he would have liked. “Forgive my sister, she is tired from a long journey.”

“We understand.”

This was a statement from Lord Stark, who ushered the two girls and their grandfather to their quarters. He sent a careful look to Robb who bristled. Jon furthered the sentiment by grabbing onto Robb’s arm and whispered, “My mother will be arriving today. He agreed to bring the herbs. I can take them today and be ready by the end of the ceremony for you.”

Robb growled. “You test my control with your very being.”

Jon flushed. He stroked his arm as more people came. The Karstarks were careful not to ignore Jon, but their intention was keen on Robb. He practically threw his daughter at the boy. Alys Karstark was less than impressed by her father’s actions and Jon found himself a friend when he heard her mutter of the ridiculous showboating of her father and brothers. Having not reached her heat, she was more entertained by the landscape of Winterfell and their proximity to the Wall. She asked her brother if he suspects a wildling raid could occur nearby and he called her an idiot for imagining it.

The greetings went on for hours. Even Theon, who enjoyed the attention, grew bored with the pleasantries. The look in his eye made it clear he already found a few positive applicants. Lord Bolton, in particular, seemed adamant in pushing his eldest son onto the Greyjoy while leaving his bastard to Jon. Ramsay was nice, if Jon could ignore the chill he felt whenever he smiled. He was Robb’s age, but judging by the way he kept sending appreciative glances towards Theon’s bosom, it was clear he cared as much for Jon as the younger boy did him. Theon, who was about as subtle as a thousand horses, shared the same attraction to the bastard. They kept sneaking flirtatious glances at each other when they thought their conversational partners were not looking.

Jon rolled his eyes.

"Is that you Jon?" He heard someone ask. Jon gasped as he found salvation in a familiar face. She was the only woman besides his sister he looked forward to seeing today and he ran up to her to express his joy. “Aunt Jyana!”

The woman captured him in an embrace. They were close in size, but Jyana carried a daintiness about her that could be mistaken as frail. Unlike her brother, she was never a _skjaldmær_. She lacked the muscles of a warrior, but there was a hardness to her disposition that appeared in every crannogman.

By Jyana’s side were her daughters by marriage and one by blood. Only two of the Mormont girls were of marrying age, and none of them were particularly eager to kneel in front of a heart tree anytime soon. Nonetheless, they wanted to see Winterfell and Winterfell they shall see.

 “Jon, you’ve gotten so big.” Jyana never exclaimed anything. Only made simple statements of truth and tranquility. Jon wistfully drank in her scent, the flavor of calming chamomile and soup after a long day. From the wise men, Jon was told that his mother represented the Neck's violence and passion; their strength in the hardest times. Jyana was the peace, the tranquility of home and unity of their people. 

“It is good to see, Aunt Jyana! I am glad you are well.” They pulled away. On Jyana's left side was a girl about Bran's age. Jon got a good look at his cousin; she was the only omega of Lady Mormont and already inherited her father's fierce glower. She was named Lyanna—for the girl Jon’s mother always wanted but never received from Lord Stark. “This must be Lyanna.”

Jyanna nodded and gently stroked her cub’s hair. “I would like you to meet my good daughters, Dacey, Lyra, and Jorelle Mormont. The youngest is with her father, and the second eldest is fornicating with a bear.”

Jon was startled.

“I am a messenger, Jon.” Jyanna sounded exasperated. She leaned in to whisper the True Tongue in his ear. She was discreet, as expected of a crannogman. “None of them are planning to propose. You are safe. We are here for the sights.” Jon was grinning like a fool when she returned to her usual demeanor. “Has my brother arrived yet?”

Jon shook his head. He looked over to his father who grew apprehensive. He sent his horses to the allocated location hours ago. Jyanna walked over to him to be greeted. They maintained a comfortable distance, but there was clearly no ill will in the act. They found each other to be pleasant company, both quiet and unassuming. She introduced her daughters. She said hello to Robb. Her nature was not to be seen—Jon found it curious she choose to marry outside the Neck, and to a woman so much older than her. Lady Mormont eldest daughter, Dacey, was only a few years her junior. Perhaps that was why they were so close. Where the other children were allowed to wander (with the exception of Lyanna), she never left her good mother’s side. There was a possessive gaze directed towards the older woman.

Hooves echoed in the courtyard. Jon shook his head. He was seeing things, projecting his fantasies onto other people because of his own situation.

When he looked over to the entrance, he was distracted from any shoveling of mates or cruel intentions. The guest of honor arrived. Jon could not contain his joy as mother, uncle, and two siblings came down from their horses and ran to take him in their arms.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't started on the next chapter yet but I'm not as concerned as I should be given that I already have an idea in mind. Be weary of the Boltons coming though because Domeric is still alive in my story. And so is Ramsay. :) Also, I love the Manderlys. They are definitely one of my favorite families and I'm sad the television series did not do them justice.  
> Thank you for all your support and I'm sorry for not responding to the comments. I appreciate all of them. I'm just a bit swamped right now so the possibility of late chapters is more prevalent than ever (let's hope it doesn't come to that--I already took one hiatus, I shouldn't get spoiled). But I will get through it. Hopefully I'll be able to fulfill some prompts (feel free to send me one at my tumblr: sometimesimeow) and my website will be made soon so the possibility of showcasing my original work is getting closer.  
> Yes, but enough about my life. May you all have pleasant wishes and I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the one to come...hopefully on time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness, this chapter deserves so many warnings. Ramsey is Ramsey in this chapter. Theon is more fucked up than anybody can imagine, even me.

Howland Reed was not a humble man. In his youth, he flaunted his beauty to his pleasure and enjoyed the madness that flashed in men’s eyes whenever they caught glimpse of his bare skin. He was not chaste as omegas were groomed to be; he did not value abstinence but partook in it for the joy of delayed gratification. The touch of his lover was so much sweeter after an absence. Whenever he visited Winterfell, he dressed in a manner made to arouse. Furs that Ned bought him, shirts and tunics from his lover’s wardrobe, thin dresses that dipped low on the neckline. He hardly ever wore his undergarments—they were too confining for a creature like Howland; a creature made to be fondled and fucked.

For Jon’s ceremony, he took a different approach to his wardrobe. Rather than provoke the other lords’ lusts, he settled for a reminder of their respect. He wore his armor—a thin steel that resembled a jerkin more than actual plates and black leather made from one of the great dragonsnakes. He kept a spear on his back and a dagger by his side. When he got off horseback, he walked with the grace of a lord, not a crannogmen.

He dressed like he was going to war, thought Jon.

He remembered the armor from whence he was young, wandering through his mother’s things as all children do. When Howland caught his snowflake, he told Jon that he only wore armor on the battlefield because Jon’s father commanded it.

“He had it specially made for me. He took every caution I discarded. The armor they provided the soldiers was too constraining for my fighting methods. He knew that unless the steel was flattened into skin, I would go without it. So he sent a design for his blacksmith and had it delivered to our camps.” He stroked his son’s head. He smiled to himself. “I was a great warrior. The most famous _skjaldmær_ in Westeros. Even the warriors who hated me, who spat on my footsteps, could not deny that I was formidable. When they saw me fight, they all wanted to kiss the ground and thanked the gods I was not their enemy.”

Today, surrounded by lords of various standings, Jon knew his mother was not lying. As a bastard, he was not expected to mingle with member of other houses. None of the crannogmen were obliged to wander beyond their borders, not for pleasantries or peacekeeping. He did not know politics in the way his siblings did and only knew that when his mother left his side to greet his father, there was tension in the air. The lords watch Jon’s mother with weary looks and unwavering eyes—as if they believed that if they blinked, a knife would find its way to their throats.

To Jon’s surprise, Howland did not greet his father with their usual kiss. They called each other by their titles, not their names, and they barely touched before Howland made his way back to Jon. He wondered what transpired between them to produce such coldness. Regardless, his sister had enough affection to distract him.

“I’ve missed you, brother. Tell me you’ve been well since I’ve last seen you.”

Jon laughed. He hugged his sister tighter. “Winterfell has been kind to me. These months have been too long.”

“At least it is not another year,” Meera bemoaned. She let go to allow Jojen an embrace. Jojen hugged him and as soon as they parted asked where Bran was. Jon laughed and pointed to a spot a few feet away. Bran was holding hands with Rickon and standing beside Arya, looking bored. Jojen thanked him and scampered over with more ungainliness than Jon thought possible. Jojen was always the nimble one in their trio.

Turning back to the scene before him, he observed how every lord and lady addressed Howland. There was contempt from Lady Dustin—he heard that years ago she tried to take a crannogman for an heir and her requests were rejected. The matter was settled quietly but the damaged had been done. _Howland wanted blood._ To Lord Stark's relief, he would not have it tonight. He turned to face the Manderlys. The Lord of the Neck smiled graciously and greeted the Manderly descendants with more fondness than he did their patriarch. Howland praised the green in Lord Wylis’s eyes and shook his gloved hand. The stout lord puffed up in pride. He was short for an alpha—a trait, no doubt, he inherited from his mother, but proud as the tallest man in the room. Jon heard from the Starks that all the Manderly children wore gloves in respect to their late lady. Jon knew better.

Afterwards, Howland made a show of greeting the rest of the nobility. He was tactful, but there was an edge to his smile. He made small mockeries towards the rare southerners that arrived, though none were able to understand his hellishness. The Freys glared but said nothing. They were there for Theon. They thought the North to be simple place, unable to make such calculated compliments. The Northern lords kept their distance but maintained their civility. The North loathed the crannogmen but they could not deny Howland Reed’s strength nor could they vocally express their disapproval towards their liege lord’s mistress. There were many new lords—some of whom did not fight in the war. Instead, they shook his hand. Some bowed, for Howland was poor and strange but he was still a principal lord. They would rather be his friend than his enemy.

There was a second, unsettling truth behind their courtesy that no one said out loud but Jon heard all the same. The North was a harsh kingdom filled with barren lands. It was the perfect place to plant a grave. No one, not even a noble man or woman, was immune to death’s touch. Wives died all the time. They could not fight the possibility that if the current Lady Stark were to pass, there was already someone to take her place.

They all stared at Jon with hungry gazes. Some reminded themselves that he was still a bastard, no matter how loyal his lineage was and that the Lady Stark was healthy as the children she bore. There was no reason to think of her demise. Others took more time to stare at the Snow child and admired his beauty. He certainly had the Stark look, but his allure resembled his mother. Some of the older men, the ones who remember Lord Reed’s impious behavior wondered what it would be like to have such a nymphet in their household. He certainly looked compromising and if he aged like his mother—they glanced over at Lord Reed, whose dark magic is rumored to have kept him youthful while the rest of them aged with the icy rivers and black sleet—there would be no disappointments in their bride.

When the last house made their appearance, the noble alphas and omegas disappeared into their guest lodgings. Robb was ordered to help his father with the arrangements. They kissed before he left Jon was alone. Theon made his way towards Jon and pulled him into an embrace.

“Did you see the turnout? There must have been at least fifty alphas!”

Jon did not have the heart to tell him that they did not all come for him. They came to see Sansa, or Arya, or Bran. Instead, he told Theon, with a light small and dull eyes. “You shall have your pickings then.”

Theon grinned. He looked to the emptying courtyard and whispered in Jon’s ear. “Since we are not competing, how do you feel about the Bolton bastard?”

Jon was taken back. “Do you mean Ramsey Snow?”

“Yes, him! He was quite fit, was he not?”

Jon pursed his lips. “I thought you said you’d never marry anything less than a first son. Ramsey is a bastard. He has an older brother.” It pained Jon to admit it, for he thought the policies of legitimacy was crude and he hated giving in to these false traditions. He wondered what caused this change of heart.

Theon reassured him that marriage was the farthest thing from his mind.  “Me? A bastard? I rather eat shit! No…” He smirked, as wily as a fox. Jon grimaced at his foster brother’s expression for only cruel thoughts followed such a look. “But, his brother seemed interested…The Dreadfort is a prosperous piece of land, nothing like the Manderlys, but still worthy of renown. And if his brother could be convinced to visit our home…”

Jon’s eyes widened. “Theon, what you are insinuating is a great betrayal! One that goes against the gods and the soul.”

Theon scoffed. “You are the result of a betrayal.”

“I am the result of love!” Jon protested with every fiber of his being. “My parents were married under the canopy cloaks of the old gods. I will not listen to you degrade their love.”

Theon kept himself from pointing out that Jon was conceived after the marriage between Lord and Lady Stark. He did not want to lose his justification, nor did he wished to incur Jon’s wrath. Instead, he laughed off his suggestion like it was a joke. “I was jesting, Jon. By the Drowned One, can you not take everything so seriously?  I swear, you’re made of more sea salt than I am.”

Theon abandoned Jon then, for the younger boy was still seething at the suggestion of unfaithfulness. He thought about Robb and how easy it would be for him to marry another while Jon remained as his mistress. The heir would never let him go and Jon could not bear to leave his side. He thought about Alys Karstark, who would surely grow up to be a beautiful woman full of charm and wit or Wylla Manderly, who was wealthy and would one day turn her raw iron into a blade. Then, there were the southerners. Jon learned from his lessons that the Tyrells had an omega daughter who was highly advanced in her studies. The North would never turn down such a prosperous union if she showed interest in the North. Joining her family meant gaining access to resources they would surely need when winter came. He kept listing names from the north to the south in his head and found himself growing more dismal by the second.

The skies grew darker and the wind blew colder. The chill washed his body and Jon’s sorrows turned to outrage. Robb was not their father. He would never choose his duty over Jon—not for a thousand omega brides and all the kingdoms in Westeros. If he ever left Jon’s side, it would be because he was forced to. Jon’s indignation made him imagine all the vile threats made against his beloved to force him into a betrothal he did not want. The desire to wring the omega heads of those insipient prospective brides grew. Jon retreated to the walls of Winterfell. He would think of sabotage and death later. He had an heir to look after.

-

Before the festivities, Howland visited the weirwood tree. He left his children to their own proclivities—crannog children aged far faster than their outside counterparts. He entrusted them their independence and paid no mind to where his husband had gone. The solitude was unnerving—a crannogman trait he would never rid himself of. He wondered if the same could be said of his son.

On his knees, he whispered his prayer with the fervor of a crab who cracked his own claws in attempt to achieve freedom. It had been too long since he gave grace. The presence of the northern powers unnerved him. He sensed a great trial to befall his child but the nature of the beast escaped him. His frustration made him careless. He did not hear the presence behind him until the chill was close enough to touch.

Howland kept his eyes shut. He rested his hand on his dagger.

“Forgive me, my lord. I did not mean to interrupt your prayer.”

Howland did not pause. He stood up and did his best to receive the lord graciously.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Lord Bolton. I was about to finish. I have spent too much time here. My son must long for my presence. The gods are yours.”

“I did not come for prayer.”

“Oh?” Howland tilted his head. He enjoyed playing coy, but whether Lord Bolton was as amused could not be determined. “Forgive my assumption. I will leave you to your business.”

“I have come for you,” Lord Bolton grasped onto his arm before he could leave. Howland stared at the offending hand and wondered what kind of an impact would be made if the leeches he loved so were to suck his arms dry the next morning. “Have you thought about my offer, Lord Reed?”

Howland redirected his gaze to Lord Bolton’s glower. He found that cruel men had the same eyes and they hated being looked into. “Lord Bolton, I have said my peace on that matter. To ask a wedded omega for his hand is not only distasteful but a great indecency. Continue this pursuit and I will be forced to bring this matter to my husband. _The brother of our liege lord._ I imagine neither Starks will be pleased to hear of your advances.”

Lord Bolton remained unperturbed. He let go of Howland but his large frame stood in the way of Howland’s escape.  His poise bothered Howland, who was used to men cowering beneath his spear.

“He will not be your husband much longer,” Lord Bolton reminded. He drew close to Howland. The lord of the Neck was sure that if he took another step backwards, Lord Bolton would follow and Howland would gain nothing but the air of weakness. He stood his ground. “I heard the plan was for him to abandon you upon your youngest’s first rut.” He brushed the tips of his fingers against Howland’s cheek. The touch was too light to be considered an assault but it made Howland shiver all the same. “I imagine your fertility would not wane before then.”

Howland was fast—fast enough to draw fear in the man whose blood ran with leech spittle and whose skin was made of the layer of ice that lured children onto lakes before they sunk them into their deaths. He placed a dagger against Lord Bolton’s throat.

“If I told Lord Stark the reason behind your death, do you think he would lift a hand against me?” Howland pressed the back of the blade into his neck. “Or would he sooner strip your son of his titles if so much of a whiff of treason remained in the air?”

For the first time since they spoke, Lord Bolton’s breath hitched. He gave no answer. Howland released him from his hold and made his way to hall where the feast was to be held. “I will see you at dinner. I trust you will be on your best behavior.”

Roose Bolton could not allow the crannogman to have the last word.

“Lord Stark does not deserve you.”

Howland pursed his lips. Against his better judgement, he addressed the statement. “You are a spiteful man, Lord Bolton, and a fool if you think you deserve what Lord Stark does not.”

“Be that as it may, your devotion is unwarranted. Lady Stark lives and will continue to live until your body withers and your voice shrills with death. Do you think he’ll want you then? When you are old and brittle? You will spend ages waiting for a man who will leave you to the snakes when you are no longer the object of his desire.”

Howland did not flinch at the accusation. He would not give Lord Bolton the glory, nor would he add value to a lie. “Lord Bolton, tread lightly when you share grounds with a crannogman. You will find yourself swallowing sand in your grave.”

“You are the most desirable omega in the North,” Bolton confessed. “During the war, the men wrapped their fingers around their cocks listening to you scream and salivated over the cream on your thighs. You took your lord so well. We all imagine ourselves in his place.” Lord Bolton took a step further. “If there was any justice in the world, you’d belong to an alpha who could fill your womb as well as they did your holes.”

“And you think you could be that alpha?” Howland mocked. He glared so fiercely at the lord, it was a wonder the man did not go up in flames. “Do not play games with me, Lord Bolton. I know how you despise the Starks—there is treachery in your blood. Thousands of years ago, my ancestors warn the Starks to rid the North of your kind and yet their honor would not allow them to kill a man who bent the knee. And here you are, propositioning me for a union you know will cause strife.”

“Why would I threaten my livelihood by angering my liege lord? I am not a fool, Lord Reed. I desire you. I have only a son and a bastard. It is not uncustomary for a man of my standing to desire another wife and child.”

“There are many options for you, Lord Bolton. But not many opportunities to humiliate the lord you loathe,” Howland sneered. “You have brought your children. Understand that my son will never touch your kin—not if I have any say in it.”

“Then it is good that you do not have all the say. Unless you would like to tell Lord Stark of our conversation?” Lord Bolton suggested. “He would send me away tonight.”

Howland chuckled. He shook his head. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? More fodder for your hatred and more time for your schemes. No, I will have you in my sight.” Howland moved towards the entrance. “Give the gods your humility. You will need their mercy. For whatever you have planned, I will return a thousand times over.”

Roose Bolton watched the crannogman leave while admiring the sway of his ass. He mourned the lost opportunity. If Lord Reed was not under the protection of the Starks, he would have raped him a thousand times over by now.

-

Jon paced within his parents’ bedroom for ages. Earlier, he had rummaged through his mother’s belongings, searching far and wide for what Howland promised him, only to give up when he realized that his knowledge of herbs had dissipated with his years at Winterfell. When his mother finally returned from prayer, the boy lunged upon him and demanded affection like a starving kitten. He wanted a mother’s pampering to soothe his aching concerns.

“What took you so long?” He whined through his kisses. 

“There was a snake in the garden that needed to be skinned.” Howland mused. His spirits were already lifted from his son’s presence. He would deal with the Boltons in due time. He had more pressing concerns at the moment. “What has gotten into you?”  

 “I need the herbs I requested. Now. You must teach me how to ingest them.”

Howland raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you are ready?” Jon pulled away. Howland was horrified by the red eyed glare—a blinding sign of tears and frustration. He brought the child to bed and coddled his miserable child. “What happened?”

“I am losing the heart of Winterfell!” Jon shouted. Howland was taken back. “All these omegas—they’ve come for Robb. They are more suited for him than I am. They are not bastards! I must watch while they lift up their frilly skirts and rub their laces against his cock and I can do nothing—”

Jon’s rant was ended with a tightened grasp on his neck. Howland pushed him onto the bed with fingers dangerous close to his larynx. He looked up at his mother, who was pitiless in his gaze.

“I did not leave you at Winterfell to be shamed by those egregious thoughts. If you continue to despise your bastardy status, I will take you by the scruff and return you to the Neck until you are reminded of who you are and where you came from,” Howland swore. “Have you forgotten what I’ve taught you?”

Jon shook his head to the best of his ability. “No, mother.”

“What did I say?” Howland pushed further down. “What did I tell you to never forget when I allowed you to be ripped out of my arms?”

Jon looked down.

“What did I say?”

“That I am the child of love,” Jon whispered. “That I am as true born as any of yours or father’s children.”

“Yes, and should you ever be ashamed of your lineage?”

“No.” Jon met his mother’s gaze, this time he was overwhelmed by his confidence. “I am the son of two great lords and the scion of kings. My blood is royal and pure. I am blessed by the gods.”

Howland’s shoulders relaxed. He let go of his son and gave him time to sit up. “That you are, my love.” He stroked Jon’s cheek where he struck. “And you must never allow anyone to dismiss you for they will be the ones to grovel at your feet. Now tell me, what has gotten you so inflamed?”

Jon sighed. His frustrations came back to him but at a lesser force. “I want the herbs. I wish to be intimate with my lover without the consequence of a child.”

“You mean you wish to bed Robb before another omega can lay claim on him?” Any other time, Howland would have made the suggestion with a smile and a tease. Jon was a wreck, his sanity was in shatters and there was no place for subtlety and half-truths.

Jon wished he could be surprised by his mother’s intuition. Instead, he was sweating a storm of fright. “How did you know?”

Howland revealed nothing of his plan. Jon would never trust his heart again if he believed their romance to be the ministrations of gods and men. No, Howland wanted their affair to be worthy of ballads and romances. “There could be no one else,” Howland told him. “I see the way he looks at you. You are his heart. You have always been his heart.”

“Does father know?”

Howland scoffed. “By the heavens, no.”

“Will he hate me if he finds out?”

“He could never hate you,” Howland swore. “At worst, he would send you back to the Neck. But that does not mean he would not punish Robb for the indiscretions. If the two of you are discovered, Robb shall face dire consequences. He might even be stripped of his position.”

Jon was aghast. “It is not his fault, though! We decided together that this is what we both wanted. I love him.”

“He is the heir to Winterfell. Regardless of your consent, he is in the position of power here. Your father will see this and suspect Robb enforced your obedience. You must not let him find out—not until the time is right.”

Jon knew the truth was never an option, but hearing it from his mother’s mouth made the knowledge all the more upsetting. The right time might never come and their love would remain a shameful secret. His mind deviated from the assurance of his love’s loyalty to the abyss of insecurities. He wondered how easy it would be for Robb to abandon him for a pretty omega whose skin smelled of poppy seeds and roses. Jon did not know what he would do in that circumstance—but he doubted he could stay as strong as his mother. No, he would want blood.

“I want the herbs. I want Robb and me to be one in body, not just soul,” Jon whispered, his mind already lost. “Please mother.”  Howland had seen the look before—sometimes on his own face. He knew the darkness that was swimming in Jon’s mind was nothing to be cured but controlled. Howland had committed crimes and feats with that darkness and would never tell a living soul of his deeds.

Howland took out one of his famed boxes and unlocked it with a spell. Taking out a bag heavy with powder, he handed it over to his son. “I crushed it beforehand. You need only to add a teaspoon to your drink, once a day. And make sure the liquid is hot. I trust you still possess that particular skill?”

Jon cradled the offering. “Only a teaspoon?”

“For four days,” Howland informed. “Any earlier and the risk is yours to take. I brought a seed for the future but I will speak with Luwin about planting it in his study. And you must hide this bag well.  If your father finds it in your room, he will question its presence.”

Jon nodded. Before he left the room, he kissed his mother. “Thank you, mother. I am in your debt.”

Howland smiled. He stroked his hair and hummed. “You are my child. I only want the best for you.”

-

Howland had never attended a presentation ceremony in his life, but he genuinely believed that the seating should not have been as complicated as it was. As the two presenting omegas, Theon and Jon were expected to be seated side by side. However, as they were not brothers and Theon was of a higher rank, they did not want to lessen his value by seating him next to a natural born son. Truthfully, Theon did not mind, but he wanted to avoid a scandal and Jon hated being the center of attention. After a great toil, the two boys were encouraged to mingle with the guests instead of staying in their seats. The second issue was Howland, Ned, and Catelyn. Ned and Catelyn were the hosts of the party and were expected to be seated together. On the other hand, Howland was Jon’s mother and was expected to be by Ned’s side. To sit on the same table as his wife was a grave insult, but to not sit on the table meant that Jon’s value would be diminished and his bastardy status would be further emphasized. Benjen settled the issue by pointing out that he could sit beside his brother and Howland could next to him.

“I am a Stark as well. We can make the main table to represent all of us as a family.”  

They all agreed, unable to withstand another headache. With the day coming to an end and the night arriving, the Starks and Reeds greeted their guests. The lords and ladies poured in and were greeted to a fine feast of birds and beasts. There were chickens on every table, pork chops glazed in honey and apples, steamed carrots and potatoes. The guests were ravenous and ate and dance to their heart’s content. Various bards and singers were present to make the night further enjoyable. Lord Umber made a careless comment about wishing he was at the Neck. The musicians were far more accommodating to his tastes. Some men laughed while others knew nothing of what this giant man was insinuating. There was only one grand feast at the beginning of a presentation ceremony and the nobles hoped to make the best of it. Tomorrow the alphas would leave for their hunting trips. Theon would be present for tomorrow's trip while Jon was to socialize with his potential mates. The third day was the reverse.

Before dinner, Theon touched himself through four comings to control his urges. Being surrounded by all those virile cocks made him delirious with lust. He wanted nothing more than to get underneath the table and suck the young men bone dry. Instead, he was left aching through dull conversation with the Bolton heir.

Domeric Bolton was an accomplished young man and a worthy partner for someone of Theon’s standing. He served as a page in Barrowton for four years and squired for a knight at the Vale. He loved horses, almost annoyingly so—Theon preferred dogs himself—and planned to enter the upcoming tourney at the Reach. Theon listened while nodding his head absentmindedly. He was glad Jon was sharing this ceremony with him. If Jon was not present, there was no way the Bolton bastard would be allowed to sit with the other trueborn alphas. Instead, Ramsey Snow sat on the left of Theon’s side, eating his chicken and fingering his half-brother’s potential mate.

Theon was drinking his wine when Ramsey pinched his clit. He choked and predictably, Domeric was there with his napkin to wipe off the spill. Theon smiled and thanked him with all the graces he learned from the septa. He would not lose this prized stallion. Domeric seemed as interested in him as well. Out of all of his choices so far, Domeric was the finest in terms of looks, wealth, and potential. He was as cold as an ice pick, but that mattered little in the grand scheme of things.

Besides, with a brother like Ramsey, who needed a personality?

Theon dropped his napkin on his lap and while he reached down to place it, he took ahold of Ramsey’s hand and dug it further into his cunt. Ramsey tensed up. Taking the act for what it was, he began to fingerfuck the slut with all his might. Theon was especially encouraging as he rode those digits throughout his conversation with Domeric. When the Greyjoy's flush became too noticeable, Theon asked to excuse himself.

“Forgive me, I am unused to being around so many alphas. I am afraid I am overwhelmed. Please excuse while I get some fresh air.”

Ramsey rolled his eyes. Only a fool could not see through the act and Ramsey was surrounded by jesters and jokers. Theon was hungry for a knot; as all omegas were. He sent Ramsey a sly invitation with his eyes, beckoning him to follow. Ramsey had overheard the men talk about bedding the bastard and wedding the lord but Ramsey knew better. He took one look at the other Snow in the room and knew that such a possibility could only be done in reverse. Jon stank of loyalty; the way all Starks did.

After a respectable period of time, Ramsey announced he was going to bed. Unlike the nobles, his quarters were further away from everybody else. “How could anybody expect a bastard to sleep amongst trueborn sons?” He asked, a grin on his face and daring in his eyes. The bitterness did not go undetected and judging by the glares in his father and his brother’s eyes, it would not go unpunished.  As soon as he said it, the men all turned to Jon who was staring. He was not hurt, however. His gaze was strong.

Ah, Ramsey thought. How intriguing.

-

Theon and the Bolton boy were fortunate that the other guests were too consumed with their own pleasures to notice their obvious attraction. Howland wondered if Lord Bolton was watching but dared not make eye contact. Instead, he settled on his children. All of them were enjoying the festivities once they made acquaintances with their intended interest.

Robb remained by Jon’s side as expected. Whenever an alpha attempted to speak to Jon, Robb was present in their conversation. He was charming and respectful, but it was clear to all the alphas that no one was getting near Jon without the approval of the Stark heir. This did not deter the other lords, who began to send their omegas conjoined with their alpha sons and nephews.

Out of all of them, it was Wynafryd Manderly who kept her distance. She observed them as a crannogman would and her green eyes reacted to nothing. Howland decided that he liked her, if only out of respect for her grandmother. He would ask her father later if she intended to or had already held a sword. Howland stopped watching when the girl was propositioned into a conversation by Lord Leobald Tallhart. The omegas that were sent to Robb were being rejected like dusty rags and it was time for them to move onto their second choice. If Wynafryd was insulted, she did not show it. She greeted his darling Brandon—a nervous thing for he was the child of a second son and not the first.

Her sister was far more rambunctious and struck a friendship with Howland’s own daughter. Unlike her sibling, she took after her father and grandmother. She was not suited for politics and was entranced by Meera’s storytelling and boldness. Her behavior, unbeknownst to her due to youth, was akin to an invitation for courtship. She leaned towards Meera when there was climax to her tale and clung to her arms when she was particularly excited.

Oh, thought Howland. This was a twist of events. He would be lying if he said a relationship with the Manderlys would be opposed, but he had not thought a union was a possibility. Jon was meant to be a Stark. Jojen’s affection for Bran was strong as ironwood. Meera was more compromising than he had originally realized.

By Meera’s side was her brother, who had taken to old habits and rested Bran on his lap. The younger boy was much bigger than whence he was a toddler but so was Jojen. He clung to Bran as if he were a doll and kissed him whenever he did something particularly adorable. To Jojen, this was ranged from a simple cough to a draw of breath. Jojen was insatiable for action and Bran loved to deliver. He returned Jojen’s kisses in full and though only a child of six, knew when to stroke Jojen’s arm and purr to awaken his alpha instincts.

Howland wondered how long he should let them indulge in this play-courting. He would formerly speak to Ned about Bran’s fostering tomorrow. The only hitch he could see is Catelyn’s influence and Jojen’s lack of temperament. Jojen would not resist Bran’s blossoming when it came. Howland could already imagine the scandal of another Stark child seduced by the Reed line.

Watching made him worrisome for he was a striker, not a spy. He left the table to mingle with the other guests—his attention directly on Lord Manderly. Only one of them was getting a Stark tonight but that did not mean he should let the other man go empty handed. His path was intersected by Jyana.

“Brother, I wish to speak with you. May we have a moment?”

Howland felt annoyed but remembered that this was his sister and he should never feel anything less than love for her. He agreed to abandon the party. They took their conversation outside, where the spies were small in numbers and their voices could be heard as vividly as the bird calls and the wind whistles.

“It has been awhile since we spoke in private. May I ask for the occasion?”

Jyana told him. “I inquire the truth. I sensed the dark nights many years ago upon Jon's conception and said nothing. When Jon blossomed, the demons rose again and still, I kept silent.  Now, I say my peace. What darkness has possessed you, Howland? To what ends do you mean to engage the gods below?”

Howland chilled at the accusation, however true it was. The crannogmen all had a talent for witchcraft—naturalistic rituals, dealing with elements so that their hands were akin to flippers and their wet wood could be warmed by fire. Few had the nerve to delve beyond their spells for survival.

Howland took a step forward. Jyana stood her ground. He stroked her cheek and in utter awe, praised her ingenuity and wit. “My darling sister, you are clever as you are beautiful. Our parents would be proud.”

“I am not as beautiful as you nor am I as clever,” Jyana reminded. “But I know you Howland and the darkness has made its presence known. When you unleash those lords, they do not stay in the same place. They travel into men’s minds and wars are made. Tell me, whatever you have planned, will you be able to suffer the consequences?”

“Nothing can compare to the suffering already dealt to me, not even what the gods can prepare,” Howland promised. Nothing could compare to losing his soulmate to another woman, to sit around while she held the throne meant to be his. Nothing hurt as much as losing a son, to be forced to see him once a year—the babe whom he nursed from his own teat and pushed out of his body in agony.

He tenderly moved the strips of her hair to the side. Then, he kissed her on the forehead. “Tell me, sister. Do you love your husband?”

Jyana did not answer. “Howland, I am worried for you.”

“Do you love the child you bore her?”

“Of course, I do. Lyanna is my life.”

“Jon is mine’s.” Howland revealed. “Ned is mine’s. Jojen. Meera. All of them deserve laurels of winter roses and baskets of strawberries and respect and adorations and yet they would never receive them if things continue as they do. How could I claim to love them if I refuse to do everything in my power to make them happy?”

Jyana said nothing. She took her brother’s hand and asked that he not let the madness rule his conscience. Howland responded that it was not madness that made him act the way he did, but love. He tightened their conjoined hands and led her back to the party.

"Your soul is pure, sister. Even when corrupted by temptation, you remain loyal and true. I admire your honor. It is a trait I find often in my loved ones."

Jyana tensed. "My husband is good to me." 

"Yes, and if all goes well you will love her as much as she does you," Howland agreed. "Out of everyone, we never expected you to leave the Neck. Father thought it was going to be you who ruled, but then those peaches sang and we found that your destiny laid further North." 

"The gods are not wrong, but that does not mean we can allow them to use us as vessels for a celestial war. The territory you are crossing is treacherous. You will lose more than your soul if you continue on this path." 

Howland paused. Then, he kissed her and apologized. "I love you, my dear sister. Your words shall be taken into consideration." 

Jyana was hardly foolish enough to believe him. "Howland..." 

“Come, we must rejoin the party. Your good daughter must be worried about you.”

Jyana did not miss the implication whenever Howland spoke about her good daughter. She thought it was worst she could not deny it.

When the two of them arrived back, Theon and Ramsey had already left for bed.

-

Ramsey could not keep his hands off the whore once they were alone. Since most of the servants were at the party, the hallways were abandoned. Ramsey did not have to travel far to find the omega. Theon was waiting for him in one of the corners and immediately pulled him into an embrace as an octopus would his prey. The cream was already dripping down his thighs. Ramsey lifted up the older boy’s skirt and ripped off the lacing of his bodice so that his tits were bouncing about. 

"Fuck, these are amazing." They were large as oranges and had nipples the size of coins. He admired the pink color for a little too long and Theon ordered him to have a taste. "They're waiting for you," he tempted.

Taking a nipple into his mouth, he began to bite and mark the breast to his pleasure. Theon squealed like a stuffed pig. He bunched up Ramsey’s hair and encouraged him to bite harder, to draw blood. “Don’t you want to mark me? Make me bleed. I bet your brother would love that.” The challenge was further encouraged when Theon began to ride his fingers. Ramsey had forced them in as soon as they kissed. He lived by the law that he should never be alone with an omega without stuffing their holes full.

Theon could not help himself. He knew better than to give his maidenhood to a bastard but he could not deny the temptation of having such a virile alpha near him. If he had it his way, he would have longed spread his thighs and get that fat, bulging knot inside his pussy. He wanted to be used, be bred and claimed like a proper omega, and have his hungry hole filled to the brim and then spill all over the floor. He could feel Ramsey’s manhood through his dress. This boy, who was no older than Robb, was experienced and could give Theon the fuck of his life.

“I can’t believe I'm attending the ceremony of such a slut. I didn’t think they made omegas like you anymore. You’re not even human, are you? Just a wet hole eager to be plowed by an alpha.”

Theon gasped as Ramsey added in another finger. He came on the spot. The juices soaked Ramsey’s hand and the boy grinned maliciously. He continued to fuck the raw pussy with his hand. Theon wrapped his thighs around Ramsey’s waist. If he could maneuver himself properly, Ramsey would be able to remove his pants and have his cock stuffing the whore within seconds. Alas, Theon had other plans when wrapped his arms around Ramsey and pulled him into a kiss. 

Ramsey was taken back by the gesture. None of his other pursuits were so romantic in their expressions (never mind he could count his consensual bed partners on a single hand and most were whores). Theon pushed his breasts against the boy’s chest for good measure. Then, he furthered complicated the issue when he let go and moved his hands downwards to grip Ramsey’s cock.

“I’ve never had a cock inside me,” Theon confessed to Ramsey's pleasure. He rubbed the manhood through the cloth. The friction made him groan.  “I’ve always wanted to. I want a big, fat, pounding knot—someone who could make me his whenever he wants. I want a real alpha.” He fluttered his eyelashes as he went in for a second kiss. “Are you alpha enough for me?”

Ramsey growled. He took out his fingers and Theon screamed. He used them to ripped away Theon’s panties instead and worked on removing his cock from his confinements. Ramsey promised him he would make him pay for his insolence.  Theon gasped in pleasure when he saw the member peeking out of his britches. He imagined that monster stuffing his mouth or entering his raw ass without preparation. Theon craved the pain of being violated. He remembered the stories from his youth. His brothers used to brag about bedding their salt wives raw--in any hole they could find. The thought of being taken by those glorified pirates made him sick, but the sensation itself was a fantasy for a thousand masturbations.

 Instead of opening his cunt, however, Theon pushed him away.

“Forgive me my lord, perhaps you misunderstand my intentions.” He almost shivered in delight when he saw the utter outrage on Ramsey’s face. “But I am a noble omega. My father is a liege lord. I cannot sully myself with a bastard.” He tried to move away. When Ramsey would not let him, he added an extra point. “Did you really think I would hand over my maidenhood to the likes of you?”

Theon did not have to wait long for a response. Ramsey grabbed him by the hair and tossed him onto the wall. He screamed at Theon, disregarding any possible bystanders. He was so angry that Theon was growing wet.

“You fucking whore! Do you think I am stupid? You propositioned me with the intention of getting your cunt ruined. Do you think for a second I would not fulfill your request? You little slut!” He slapped Theon across the face. Theon whimpered. Oh, he would be red tomorrow and people would know foul play was amidst. He wondered what he would say in response. He did not have time to think about it when Ramsey slapped him again and forced him on his knees. He shoved the cock into Theon’s face.

This boy’s untouched mouth needed to be filled, but one look at those bare breasts sent Ramsey towards a downward spiral. He told Theon to use his hands to bring him release. Theon found the request strange but complied. He could be obedient, Ramsey sneered, if he was better trained. Theon wrapped his palms around the cock and rubbed him up and down. On occasion, Theon boldly planted kisses on the glans, desperate to taste the building seed.

When he was finished, Theon worked the shaft faster. Ramsey told him to aim for his breasts. He wanted to see those magnificent teats covered in his come. He got his wish when Theon stroked him especially hard and licked the tip of his shaft.

Soften by his orgasm, he was barely able to catch Theon making his escape. Having none of the slut’s coyness, he pulled Theon back to him. Those breasts were still covered in cum but were not as beaten with bruises as he would have liked. His mouth remained untouched and he was still a virgin. None of those traits fared well with Ramsey. He grabbed onto Theon’s wrist and dragged him to his chambers.

Once in open view, Theon’s confidence shattered. “Stop! Ramsey, I am undressed! I cannot walk out like this!” He was a catastrophe. His chest was out in the open. His dress was ripped apart. Anyone looking at him would know what happened and expect the worst. He could not allow one of the guest to see him and have rumors flock the castle.

“You’re my whore now. Who cares what you think?” Ramsey responded. His grin made Theon’s blood ran cold and Theon tried his best to fight him. As they marched down the hall, Theon’s wrist was turning blue and his breath quickened with every pillar they pass without getting caught. Theon struggled to find something that would aid him to freedom. On the next painting they passed, he saw a vase. He grabbed it and without further warning, slammed it against Ramsey’s head.

The bastard let go of Theon, giving him a small window of opportunity. The Greyjoy dashed down the hallway. Ramsey, once he recovered, chased after him. Theon ran for his chastity. He refused to think of the horrors that would become of him if he were to get caught—no matter how wet the image made him. He needed a prosperous marriage. Ramsey was a bastard, he told himself. He was a cruel bastard.

The words were repeated as a mantra in his head. Just when Ramsey began to close in on the last living son of Euron Greyjoy, a voice saved him.

“What is going on here?”

Theon wanted to kiss the ground when he saw who the voice belonged to.

Howland walked out of the shadows to confront the two. Theon ran to him. He hid behind his back for protection, for Ramsey was a monster but Howland was a sorcerer. They controlled monsters, didn’t they?

To his credit, Ramsey did not admit his guilt, even with the damning evidence of what was happening. “We were playing a game of chase. I was too eager in my pursuit. Apologies. I’ll end the game here and allow you to escort the lordling to his chambers.”

Howland believed none of it. Only the daftest fool would. He turned to Theon. “Theon, what happened? Why were you running?”

Theon froze as all attention was directed towards him. He thought about his situation. Even with his earlier encouragement, he would face no penalty. Ramsey was a bastard. Theon could easily spin a tale about being forced into the corner and violated without his consent. After another moment of consideration, he answered Howland to the best of his ability.

“Ramsey is right. We were…playing. I would like to be escorted to my room, now.”

Ramsey appeared surprised, and perhaps, intrigued by Theon’s decision. They would meet again in the next three days. Theon loathed to think of it but the tingle in his lower regions said otherwise. Howland stared at the two suspiciously before taking off a cloak from one of the statues and covering Theon’s chest.

Before Ramsey could turn his back, Howland ordered him to stay. Theon watched with apprehension as Howland walked up to the bastard. Howland raised his hand. Ramsey froze. To his surprised, Lord Reed wiped off a sliver of blood on his forehead. It must have come from the vase.

“I understand you are Lord Bolton’s son?”

“Yes,” Ramsey admitted. “I would clarify myself as a bastard but I assumed that matters little to you, Lord Reed.”

“It doesn’t.” Howland narrowed his eyes. “I suggest you control yourself in the future. My son is uninterested in mating, but if I find out you’ve directed a similar pursuit of him, your father will not be able to save you.”

Ramsey wanted to reply that his father would not save him if he was drowning on a lake—claiming it a result of his own stupidity to be there. Instead, he agreed to the command but then pointed out that if his father could not help him, perhaps his future good mother would.

“I trust my father has made another offer towards your hand?”

Theon jumped when heard of such news. Howland glared at the boy.

“I am married,” Howland replied instead. “You and your father would do well to remind yourself of the proper courtesies when dealing with omegas. Less they themselves take action against their pursuers.”

Howland said nothing more and would not listen to another second of roundabout dribble. He took Theon by the hand and ushered him into his room. When they arrived, Howland all but threw Theon inside.

“If he goes near you again, tell me and I will have him removed from these lands,” Howland promised. Theon meekly agreed to those conditions. His hesitance unsettled Howland who suspected a misunderstanding.

“Theon, is there something you would like to tell me?”

Theon choked up. Finally, he shook his head. “Nothing, Lord Reed. I was…we were playing a game. It got out of hand.”

Howland’s glower did not waver. “Be careful about the games you play, Theon. And be especially careful about who you play them with. The world is not kind to omegas and you best remember the viciousness behind a man’s touch before you remember the comforts.”

He left without saying goodnight. Theon rested on his bed. He could not help but admire the bruises on his breasts. Ramsey left teeth marks of a rabid babe and caused one nub to bleed. Theon had not notice. He had been too aroused.

-

When the party had ended, the maids carried the men to their bedrooms and Robb and Jon retreated to their own quarters. Jon swiped a goblet of water before he left. He placed it on his dresser and pulled out his bag of ground herbs. Robb stared as his younger brother dropped a teaspoon of molted green into his drink and mixed. He caught of whiff of it in the air. It smelled like moss on an ironwood tree.

Feeling bold, he walked up to Jon’s back and wrapped his arms around him. “That’s it, isn’t it?” He murmured. “The medicine you asked your mother to bring you. The herbs that will prevent our child.” His voice was toneless. He did not sound particularly pleased or upset and the unreadable nature of the statement made Jon tense.

Since he did not know how to response, he settled for a neutral explanation. He swirled his spoon and watched the water thicken into the swamps of his homelands. “It is only temporarily. When we are ready to have a child, we will do so. I would rather be cautious and together than loose minded and apart.”

Robb sunk his head onto Jon’s neck. He sucked on the bare skin. Jon was distracted with the potion so Robb took advantage of the opportunity. His hands worked on the top of his dress. Robb removed each lace with the precision of a maester. Jon gasped as each string came undone.

He tried to concentrate on the spell to heat up the water.

Robb removed one of his sleeves. His tongue traveled from Jon’s neck to his shoulder and tasted his flesh beneath him.

“Robb…” Jon moaned.

“Carry on with your spells,” Robb ordered. “I already have to wait four days. I would rather not prolong my abstinence.” He removed the other sleeve. “I cannot wait to have you, once and for all.”

Jon finished while Robb was in the middle of marking up his spine. Jon drank the liquid in haste. It burnt his throat but the pain was a good distraction. He tried not to envision the sight of Robb behind him. The older boy had already lowered his dress to showcase his ass. Robb cradled the cheeks with an obsessive air and kissed each one affectionately.

“Mine,” he praised. He sounded so awed. “All of this is mine.”

Jon turned around to reveal his barely clothed pussy. He ordered Robb to remove it for him. Robb did as command and took the panties down with his teeth. Jon gasped with the barest hint of tongue ran across his quim. He grasped onto Robb’s hair and told him to behave.

Robb pouted. He got off his knees and kissed Jon. “I am so eager to have you in my bed.”

Jon agreed. He returned the favor to Robb by undressing his own shirt. He admired the smooth muscle. Robb was to join the others on their hunting trip while Jon would be left behind to deal with the other omegas and the few suitors who choose to stay. The act was tedious but at the same time riveting. His omega side preened from the attention. He licked his lips as he played with Robb’s curls.

“Tomorrow, we will be apart for hours. And before that, you would be expected to spar with those alphas.”

Robb winced. “It will not be as long as we fear. If we can get enough game, we could be finished far before sundown.”

Jon hummed. “I hope so. I do not wish to be apart from you long.” He started to squeeze Robb’s cock through his britches. When he let go, Robb gasped. Before he could punish his impish omega, Jon took him by the hand and led him to the bed. Robb was hesitant to follow orders but he could never deny Jon anything. He laid on the bed while Jon climbed on top of him.

Jon leaned down to kiss. They were slow, languid kisses implying a long and tortuous night ahead of Robb. “Did you get look at any of the omegas?” Jon asked as he sucked Robb’s tongue.

“Hmm?” Robb could barely pay attention to the words. He was enamored by Jon’s technique of tongue.

“The omegas that came. What did you think of them?” Jon rolled his hips on top of Robb’s cock. He grasped onto Robb’s chest.

Robb moaned. He struggled to answer. “They were…they were nice. Fine people. I guess. Gods…”

Jon bent down for another kiss. When they parted, he asked Robb if he could name any of the ones that caught his eye. Far too distracted, Robb tried to remember the names but could muster nothing. “I can’t remember, Jon. I only have eyes for you.”

“Really?” Jon asked as he rolled his hips again. He allowed Robb to grasp his ass and squeeze. “What about Alys Karstark? Or Cley Cerwyn? He seemed fond of you.”

“Who?” Robb asked.

Jon purred. He rewarded Robb with another kiss for that answer.

They continued their game throughout the night. They evolved past humping like rabbits to using their fingers and tongues. Eventually, both brothers were too worn out to move. Just when Robb was about to go to sleep, Jon warned him of another incident he should be privy to.

“What?”

Jon played with the hairs on Robb’s chest. He had a number of them now.

“I just thought you should know that the other alphas were saying such… _crude_ things about me. And their sires were encouraging it.”

Robb stiffed. “Like what?”

“Nothing.” Jon kissed his arm. “Just that I would become their family whore if I were to wed them. They said that if I was anything like my mother, I would spend my whole marriage on my back. I think they said it was where an omega belongs.”

Robb gritted his teeth. “Did they now?”

“Yes, Meera overheard them talking. She left before she could hear anymore. She thought she would swing a spear into their hearts. She is such a good alpha, Robb. She will make any omega swoon.”

Despite the knowledge that Meera was Jon’s sister—a fact meaning less than it should have given their relationship—Robb could not stifle the jealousy that occurred whenever Jon praised another alpha. Robb pulled Jon into a tighter embrace.

“Worry not, little brother. I will take care of it.”

Jon smiled against his skin. “Will you now?”

“Yes,” Robb swore. “I will make them regret every vulgar word utter towards you.”

Tomorrow, he would remind them that Jon was not only a Stark but he was his Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Dragonsnakes refers to anacondas. I thought about using the word ‘anaconda’ and then remember that they called crocodiles ‘lizard-lions’ so ‘dragonsnakes’ happened.  
> 2\. Anyway, I had a great day yesterday. My website, [Murder at the Cathouse](http://www.murderatthecathouse.com) was launched. This will be where I display all my original work. Then, my books that were lost in transit got delivered. Milk was on sale. Green tea was on sale. Things were great.  
> And when I went to work, I found out that yesterday was not Friday as I originally believed, but Saturday.  
> And I had still not completed this chapter.  
> So I apologize for the excessive mistakes and the lateness. This is what an all-nighter looks like. I hope to never do it again but I know that’s impossible and instead choose to be impressed that I wrote over nine thousand words in less than 24 hours.  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

Robb rested with the soundness of the dead and Jon is both envious and unnerved by his quiescence. He tested out Robb’s fatigue with tempting touches, laying fingers on his chest and kissing his nape with such chasteness, a bystander might believe it to be innocent. Robb remained asleep. Jon supposed that if Robb had not become mad with frustration than he was unswayable till sunrise. Jon crept out of the covers and snuck into the halls. He knew the passageways by heart. The darkness had no power over him.

When Jon arrived at the bedroom, he saw through the night’s shroud and sought his way to the bed. He crawled underneath the sheets and laid beside the warm body. Unlike Robb, the person he sought was not a heavy sleeper by any means. Jon curled up to rest more comfortably in his partner’s arms.

“Who is there?” Theon jumped. From groggy uncertainty to violent attentiveness, Theon was released from his slumber to address the presence. Jon was tossed onto the other side. He made an 'oofed' noise. Theon’s eyes widened. “Jon? Is that you?”

“Who else would be sneaking into your room at night?” Jon asked, irritation heavy in his grumble. He was jesting, but Theon’s silence was enough to warrant his suspicions. “Theon?”

“It’s nothing. Go to sleep, Jon.”

“Theon, were you expecting someone else…?”

“No!” Theon groaned. “Jon, I swear, you are a mole if your frequent digging is any indication of your being. And why do you keep entering my room without my permission? You are not a child anymore!”

When aggravated, Theon tended to lash out in a physical manner. Despite the risk of a tumble, Jon pushed. “Theon, what have you done?”

“Nothing,” he repeated. “Let the Drowned One take me away! Stop insisting something is wrong! I am not you, waiting for my elder brother to come and fondle in the night.”

Jon paused. He clenched his fingers on the sheets. His eyes were burning gold as the moon laying the horizon. “Theon, be careful with your whispers. The walls have ears and coming from the mouth of our _foster brother_ , your words are heeded as gospel.” Jon leaned towards him. “I will not have you breathing life into vile rumors and innuendos that can harm our family.”

Theon grimaced, for he recognized the tone; he knew there was blade attached to the tip of that tongue. The subject was a sore spot for Jon. He felt threatened by any wrongdoing towards Robb, imagined or otherwise.

“Stop your dramatics,” Theon mumbled, denying that fear had pierced his heart at the moment. “I mean nothing by it.”

“Winterfell is a hive in which the workers produce honey flavored with deceits.” Jon glared. “I am not the only one who is at risk if people find time to investigate rumors. There are plenty of devastating falsehoods that could ruin us all.” 

Theon hated being spoken down to; he especially loathed being reminded of an obvious fact he overlooked. He retreated back under his covers. “Fine! I will keep silent. Now, get your rest. You may not care about mating, but I intend to be betrothed by the end of this week. I need to look my best for the hunt tomorrow.”

“So soon? I thought you would at least wait the year before accepting any offers.”

Theon was hesitant to admit the truth. He told Jon that he did not want to wait. “If someone of high prestige makes his intentions known, I would rather not allow another lord to counter it with a better dowry. Where would I be then? No lord would have me if he thought himself a second choice.”

“But weren’t you worried about appearances? That you would seem…. _desperate_?”

Theon scoffed. He turned away from Jon and stared at the wall. “I am no more desperate for a cock than the harlots who arrived on your father’s coin to find themselves a lesser alpha. If they could disregard their pride, why should I be immune? Times are changing. Your mother once told us that if omegas allow ourselves to be traded like cattle, we will be treated like cattle. Branded and made to bear meat for the slaughter.”

Jon would have agreed with the sentiment, but the words came off as a parroted declaration of Howland rather than Theon’s own thoughts.

“You left the party early tonight.”

“I was tired.”

“You were so excited earlier.” Jon pointed out. He was suspicious and made no effort to hide his disbelief. “The Bolton boy—the younger one, he left after you. Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened!” Theon shrieked. He covered his mouth afterward. Outside, they heard a few steps pausing as if waiting for another sound. There were a number of guards wandering about, carefully guarding the rooms in case an alpha proved ungallant. After a moment, the sounds ceased.

Jon was staring. Theon groaned. He might as well paint his body with his indiscretions if he continued behaving like some serving wench who bedded his lord. “And he is not a Bolton. He is a bastard. He means nothing to me.”

“I am a bastard,” Jon reminded. “We all have a place in this world. Bastards and trueborns alike. If he’s caught your eye and was allowed to join his brother in this courting charade, we cannot say he is nothing. That he _did_ nothing.”

Theon glared. His frustration with the argument forced him to ignore Jon. Jon continued to bother him, regardless. Theon resisted the urge to make peace. Recognizing teh defense of silence, Jon huffed. He mimicked the older boy’s vow of silence but refused to leave well enough alone. He snuggled closer. He let his curls touch Theon’s neck. Theon tried his best not to smile but the softness of Jon’s touch made him laugh. 

“You are horrible,” Theon grumbled without bite. He turned so that he was facing Jon. Jon grinned. The Snow child touched Theon’s face. There were no bruises. He trailed down his nightshirt and was met with aggravation. Theon swiped his hands away.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you will not like what you see. I won’t be responsible for tarnishing the innocence of Lord Stark’s favorite child.”

Jon pursed his lips. “I am not innocent, nor am I my father’s favorite.”

“You are definitely his favorite,” Theon denied. He did not address the earlier accusation; he, too, doubted the virtue of Jon Snow. Not his chastity, for if Jon had lost his maidenhood, Theon would surely know (and simultaneously become enraged that a boy so much younger than him, someone he trusted and guided through adulthood, could enjoy the pleasures of the flesh before he) but the saying that all bastards grow up faster than their legitimate counterparts came to mind. He was sure that accounted for the Bolton bastard's brutal tendencies. His touch pulsed on top of Theon's skin.

Theon stopped his depraved thoughts. He would not grow wet while sharing a bed with an omega.

“What happened tonight?” Either Jon missed the earlier comment or believed Theon’s invasiveness to be a primary matter at hand, Theon did not care. Theon focused only on finding the answer to appease his foster brother. Both denial and silence proved ineffective.

“The Bolton bastard—he wants me,” Theon hated how soft his voice became. “I believe he will do anything to have me. Even if it will ruin me in the process.”

Jon’s eyes became sharp. “Theon, if you are implying that he has wronged you, then you must tell me. Has he harmed you in any way?”

Theon hesitated. Then, after a moment, he removed the opening of his nightshirt and revealed the malicious scars covering his body. Jon chilled at the sight.

Jon got up. “Theon, we must tell father! We cannot allow this grievance to go unpunished. Father will have him sent to The Wall! He cares more about you than you care to admit.”

“Jon, do not speak a word of this to anyone, not even Robb.”

“Theon—!”

“Promise me!” Theon demanded.

Again, Jon said nothing. Theon attempted to appeal to Jon’s rational side, the part of him corrupted by politics and the civility of being Lord Stark’s precious bastard.

“What would you have me say?” Theon’s asked. His whispers were heated by passion and a righteousness that did not exist. “That my lusts overcame me and I tempted an alpha into a fever? That when he touched me, he made me as wet as a village flooded by a storm and I allowed him to continue his courting, despite the fact that I made no plans to receive him. His brother is my best chance at receiving a suitable proposal. How do I know that if I shed light on this incident, Lord Bolton will not cast me away for a less problematic mate?”

“Father will not blame you for an alpha’s lack of control. And if Lord Domeric does not receive you for a fault that is not your own then he does not deserve you!"

Theon shook his head. He laughed, cruel and disbelieving. “Oh Jon, you are the most noble of bastards if you believe justice befalls the realm of omegas. The North loathes me. I will be cast out like rusted iron befitting the son of Balon Greyjoy.”

Jon was not unsympathetic to Theon’s plight. He did not believe his friend was lying, either.

Yet, he would not be his mother’s child if he did not check Theon’s story for holes.

“There are other ways for us to remove Ramsay from Winterfell. Or at the very least, leave him incapacitated until the end of the ceremony. If you wish, we could ask my mother for his methods on dealing with unfavorable alphas.”

Theon became tense. “Jon, that is not necessary.”

“Something needs to be done.”

“I will be fine. I will keep my distance from Ramsay.”

Jon could spot a lie, especially one so devastatingly dishonest.

“Would you like to see him again?”

“No!” Theon protested—but he was far too quick about it. A response with that much suddenness either implied absolute certainty or a large defense. Jon’s stare was unwavering. He waited for Theon’s explanation.

And Theon knew Jon could wait forever. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I should not even acknowledge him. His brother is dressed in accomplishments and laurels of future notability. I would be a fool not to address him my complete attention.”

“But Ramsay?”

“He is a beast in every way. Our moment together was sudden and merciless. He would sooner choke the life out of me than love me.”

“Yet you are drawn to him?”

Theon frowned. He did not know what Ramsay was to him but the devil leading him astray with promises of forward hands and a mouth on fire. “I am drawn to him in the way my eye would seek out a fire in a hailstorm. His brother is a cold, humorless being who resembles more ice than man.” Theon sighed. “I cannot have both and if I had to choose, I would select his brother, if only for the security.” 

“It says something about a man who is chosen over a monster for nothing more than his security.”

Theon glared. “I do not have the luxury of suitors. What other choice do I have? Would you rather me return to the Iron Islands, where my mate would put a son in me and his hundreds of salt wives? And every day I would be locked in a rock fortress, letting the wet air turn my skin into prunes? Or should I live in a barren land given for the sake appeasement to a third or fourth son?”

“You should be happy,” Jon retorted. “In a marriage with the potential to love, at the very least.”

“Because your parents are so happy in their respective betrothals?” Theon mocked.

“They would have been if men did not dictate their happiness in lieu of gods.”

“Well, neither want me to be with Ramsay. _I_ don’t want to be with him—not all of me, at least.” Theon shut his eyes. He struggled to convey his true feelings—a volatile kaleidoscope of emotions he was unfamiliar to. “I ache for him. His touch has provided me with more pleasure than I have ever known but at the same time, I fear him. I have never had an alpha make me run for my life.”

“What?”

“It does not matter,” Theon interrupted the outrage. “We will not be together.”

“Lord Bolton could legitimize him. Father could try and lend his persuasion in that matter.” Jon could not judge the nature of ill-witted lusts. He was far too biased. The most he could do was lend his shoulders to his friend and foster brother. He would support him, given that Theon remembered such kindness in the future.

“Even if Ramsay was not a bastard, he’d still be a second son.” Theon shook his head. He tried to clear his head by staring at the ceiling and imagining stars above the brick. “I should count my blessings instead of pushing my luck.”

“I do not believe the gods would have brought you two together without the precedence for something greater. That is the only explanation for your unwarranted attraction.”

“You sound like your mother.”

“My mother is a very wise man.”

Despite the dreariness, Theon smiled. “And what would your mother do in my situation?”

“He would have both.”

Theon chuckled. “Liar, your mother does not have an unfaithful bone in his body. His love for your father is what ballads are made of.”

Jon smiled regardless. “I meant he would have the passion of a lover under one arm and carry the weight of his people in another.” Jon rested his head against Theon’s soft chest. “He would find a way to have Ramsay’s passion and Domeric’s power. He would take it for himself if he had to.”

“Your mother is as ruthless as a blizzard to a newborn babe. If I was to follow his example, I would be leading a life of immorality, the only path of an omega who betrays his alpha’s rule.” 

“We are birthed from immorality,” Jon whispered. “You are the son of a traitor. I am a bastard. Together, we are condemned by gods that neither of us follow. We are pitiful.”

“What does that mean for us?”

“It means we should get what we desire. At any cost.” Jon held Theon’s hands as his voice dimmed into a light murmur as fatigue came upon him. “Everyone hates us. Why should we not prove ourselves worthy of slanders already made?”

Theon said nothing. When he finally found an answer, though weak and motivated by nothing more than his desire to have the last word, Jon was already asleep. Theon would wait. He resolved to have the final say tomorrow. 

-

Since Jon’s arrival, Robb developed an aversion to sleeping in solitary. He did not know if his repulsion was linked to his violent ruts where his father’s men would drag him away, clawing into his skin to distract him from the pain of being torn from his mate, or if the peculiarity was innocent, stemming from having a constant companion for his slumber. Either way, he knew Jon was responsible. He spoiled Robb with his presence.

On the morning of the hunt, Robb woke up to the smell of sharp mint tea and the tang of lemon rinds in the air. He looked over to the table in Jon’s room, where his brother practiced his letters and maths and saw that Jon was preparing a cup for the both of them, paired with a plate of fruits ranging from bulbous blackberries fresh from the gardens to various melons sliced neatly along the edge. When he saw Robb rise, the younger boy walked towards him with a sway of the hips and a grin on his lips. Without a word, Jon climbed into his lap. They kissed, languidly, as if they had all the time in the world instead of precious hours before the hunt.

When they parted, Robb asked about the special service.

“At breakfast, they will dine you on cured meats and grains. I figured you needed more substance. So I went into the kitchen. Gage asked me what I wanted and I told him ‘something sweet for my beloved brother with a sharpness to clear his mind.’” Jon added a kiss to his explanation. He tugged on the lower lip with his teeth and encouraged Robb’s hands to roam where they would not be invited until the night. “You will need the extra strength to defend my honor.”

The other boys would give Jon the respect of septa once Robb was done with them. He lifted Jon up and wrapped his tiny legs around his waist. Jon laughed as he was carried to the desk and laid down next to the delicacies. Robb took a piece of berry and pressed it into Jon’s lips.

Jon smiled slyly. Instead of taking a bite, he wrapped his lips around the blackberry and sucked as if he were draining it for juice. Robb groaned as Jon worked his mouth upwards so that he was swallowing his fingers. He released them with a ‘pop’ and tightened his thighs around his brother.

Robb lifted Jon’s shirt to reveal a pair of pink nipples perked up for attention. He grabbed a thin slice of honeydew and placed it between Jon’s breasts. Jon shivered from the coolness. “Robb…”

Robb bent down and worked on the food in front of him. If Jon wanted to serve him, he would do so wholeheartedly. Robb ate the melon off Jon’s chest and sucked love bites wherever the nectar touched his skin. He placed two berries on top of Jon’s nipples and bit into them—leaving a visible stain on Jon’s white skin. He did not have to worry about a stain, however, for Robb was quick to clean off the mess. Jon moaned as Robb sucked and nibbled on his nubs. During his meal, Robb ground his cock against Jon’s erection. He relished in the sensation of Jon’s cocklet struggling to get free. To further frustrate his beloved, Robb snuck his hands on top of the younger boy’s bottom and squeeze his cheeks—while slipping a pinky into Jon’s hole.

Jon whimpered. He reached for Robb so that he could lace his fingers through his hair. Once he caught the older boy, he lifted himself up for a kiss, ignoring the grapes that skipped on the ground.

“You are so cruel,” Jon whimpered. “I was being a good omega for you.”

“And I was rewarding you,” Robb counters. He licked off the juices of Jon’s chest and several other places that have never seen a fruit. Tasting salt and ice instead of sugar and tarts, he sought to rectify this dilemma by picking up one of the few grapes left on the plate and adding them in—particularly inside Jon’s untouched cunt.

Jon nearly screamed when the first grape entered him. Robb pushed the drupe all the way inside his cunt where it teased the corner of his g-spot. Robb added another when Jon became too quiet. He wanted the boy to unravel under his hands. He was deliberately slow for this reason. When Jon tried to push them out, Robb slapped his thigh—a reminder that he wanted Jon open for him. He was careful not to hurt him. He only wanted to tease Jon and he needed those grapes intact for what happened next. Robb kept adding them until Jon was writhing like a fly caught in a web. He begged for Robb to release him. There were at least eight grapes inside him.

Robb took the last grape between his fingers. “Jon, you said you wanted to be a good omega. I want you to prove it.”

Jon whimpered. He raised his hips for better access.

Robb pretended to be nonchalant. It was hard, considering how delicious Jon looked stuffed with objects. He was Robb’s personal dessert. He glanced over Jon’s tussled nipples and wondered how they would look with rings attached to them--like the omegas in the scriptures sold in brothels. 

“If you want to serve me, you would let me finish. I don’t like being told how to take care of my omega. I know how to take care of you; that’s why you choose me.”

Robb peeled off the final grape. Jon watched. He was shaking when Robb licked the veins and sucked the purple skin off. Then, he pressed it against Jon’s clit and rubbed it.

“Robb!” Jon squealed. He clenched the sheets. “Please don’t make a mess out of me. We have to greet our guests this morning. Some have already seen me. They will wonder what made me change.”

Robb did not answer. He pressed the final grape inside and then stuffed the accompanying finger inside and churned. Jon screamed. Robb kissed him to feel the vibrations against his lips.

When they ended their kiss, Robb observed the mess before him. Jon was heaving. His cunt was dripping with jam. Robb eyes narrowed when he thought about the alphas on the training grounds, how their eyes would drink in Jon’s disheveled appearance and rip their dicks off to the thought of him. “You will come to the training grounds today to watch us. If you cannot participate with us, I want them to have their eyes on you, watching me.” It was considered unsightly for an omega to partake in activities with alphas, however innocent. 

Without warning, Robb took out his fingers. Jon came a second time and let his voice bleed through the walls. Robb, who was fearless in the way boys were, laughed when he witnessed Jon’s lack of control. Drool was dripping out of his mouth and his eyes were wide and blown with pleasure. He knew that he alone owned the luxury of producing such a lovely face from his brother. He sucked the remains off his fingers. Sweet with a touch of tartness, just like their breakfast and exactly like Jon. After a moment of contemplation, Robb ordered Jon to tell them the truth.

“Tell them I got you dirty.”

-

A half an hour before breakfast, Lord Stark was busy cleaning up the mess he made between Howland’s thighs. He parted those tight legs and savored the cream as if they were milked from the heavens. Howland was silenced by the bedsheets between his teeth. He bit down to avoid making any noise as Ned devoured him. 

When they were children, Howland and Ned celebrated their love through open displays of affection. While Ned was a stoic, even as a teenager, he was also an alpha. He was proud to have his attraction reciprocated by an omega so fine and fertile. Their deep kisses and wandering hands were credited to youthful indiscretions. Their peers would cheer for them while their elders shook their head in disapproval, hiding their mischievous winks and nostalgic grins.

As adults, the politics of their romance became synonymous with sin. Their touches, regardless of whether they were purposeful or accidental, were deemed immoral. Their longing looks were depraved. Howland refused to be judged by hypocrites. “I have half a mind to remind them that if I am a sinner, we will all burn in the same pot.”

Ned could not agree more, but instead of acting in his own self-interest, he soothed Howland’s concerns with a reminder that while Catelyn shared his home, Howland owned his heart. The men who carried titles on his land were his children and he needed to care for them despite their deprived humor. Any leader who allowed his ego to dictate his rule was not a ruler worth following.

He was not without fault, however. The libel warranted minor aggressions on his part. He was less likely to entertain some follies of vocal lords and slow to answer their reasonable but small demands. Yet, this did nothing to stop the rumors. Instead, it added walls between the whispers. 

For Jon’s ceremony, they agreed to maintain an air of appropriateness, if only to spare Jon discomfort. Howland respected Ned’s decision. He reasoned that it was necessary for a favorable income, especially if Lady Stark was to attend.

“Your wife is so fragile. I would hate for the other lords to suspect the worst if her mind were to catch fire.” Howland agreed. He undid his dress shirt. Ned’s eyes followed the way it to the ground. Howland did not like the lack of attention so he caressed his lover’s face so that he was staring at him. “And I know, there is nothing that makes her burn more than witnessing our love.”

Ned di not answer. Howland statements towards Catelyn always bordered the lines of a threat. Instead, he cleared his mind by joining his love for a tumble. He acted for the sake of absolute debauchery. While the lords were being escorted to their bedchambers, hanging off the shoulders of guardsmen and sturdy mated omegas relegated as babysitters, Ned worshiped his lover’s body. Howland aged days in what had cost Ned decades. The Warden of the North refused to lend an ear to the rumors—black magic, he heard them whisper, for there was no other rationale for the firmness of Howland’s skin, how his face remained in the winter of Jon’s birth while the rest of them came closer to the decay of rotting life in the compost. 

Ned woke up to these thoughts and a pink, puckering mouth, swollen as the day they met, wrapped around his cock. He came when Howland swallowed him down. His throat was as tight as his cunt. Ned was reminded of the fact when Howland took his awakening as a chance to explore more during their busy morning. He pushed the older man back to the bed and tease him by rubbing the folds of his cunt against him. One would suspect Howland of being a virgin if they dug their fingers inside. Ned tried to position his cock but was met with a disapproving slap.

“Our son’s adulthood has made me nostalgic,” Howland teased. “I wonder if my lord is too old to remember how to give a proper lord’s kiss?"

Ned shivered. He flipped Howland on the bed. The younger man laughed as gaily as they did when they were children. To encourage him, Howland spread his legs, beckoning for him to come closer. Ned placed himself between those enchanting thighs and dipped his tongue. His sighed at the taste. Those men were wrong. There was nothing unholy about a creature so perfect. 

When they were finished, Ned prepared for the hunt. He would keep a watchful eye on everyone in his party. He vowed to find a mate worthy of his son. If his son must wed, it would be to an alpha who worshiped the ground he walked on—just as the children of Howland deserved.

-

When a serving girl came to get Theon, he was torn between making an appearance and huddling under his covers like a frightened child. He does not know if he could face his guests today, Ramsay, Domeric, or even their father, Lord Bolton. The Lord of Dreadfort gave him chills. Theon was sure that if he came downstairs, the man could sniff out his infidelity.

If he did not attend breakfast, he would appear frail, or at worse, fickle towards the advances of the awaiting alphas. They would deem his absence as an insult—they have traveled miles to make his acquaintance. These were Northern alphas as well. They admired an omega who could hold a sword in one hand and suckle a babe in another. He could not claim illness for if he did, Lord Stark might forbid him entry for the hunt. Theon did not want to miss the event. Even without the alphas, Theon enjoyed the activity. The sun of a virile chase made his skin glow.

He opted for the lesser evil and told the serving girl he needed more time to get dressed. Wearing a pair of trousers that accompanied his form like a glove, he left his room. His face was drained of color. If someone saw him, he would not need to make any excuses. They would have already thought he was sick.

“Theon, are you unwell?”

Theon cursed his luck. He turned around to see Lord Stark and Lord Reed walking beside each other as men in marriage do. Lord Stark was a cloud compared to his lover, who stunned men’s hearts even when dressed in his dreary drabs. If Jon cared to utilize his looks the way his mother did, Theon would face humiliations worthy of a lady swollen with a beggar’s spawn. Try as he might, his bitterness could not evaporate into the Northern mist. His past was made up of scenes being second place to a bastard and now his future was at risk of being destroyed by another.

“I am not, Lord Reed. I am afraid I am not as well rested as I would have liked to be. Jon came into my bed yesterday and we spent the entire night talking.”

“Will you be able to join the hunt?” asked Lord Stark. “If not, Jon will replace you—”

“No!” Theon protested. He composed himself immediately and smiled graciously at his lord and kidnapper. “I would not miss the hunt for the world. You do not have to worry.”

Lord Stark appeared unconvinced. Truthfully, Theon wanted to be sent to bed, but his previous concerns towards his reputation would remain. Lord Reed offered his own suggestion. His green eyes shot through Theon and saw the Greyjoy’s insecurities written on the wrapping paper of the box containing his heart.

“If Theon would prefer, he could spend the morning practicing his archery. I am sure our guests would appreciate the effort he is putting into their entertainment.”

Theon was startled by the opportunity and was horrified he did not come up with it himself. The excuse was brilliant. He could avoid Ramsay while promoting his own value as an omega who was dedicated to the pursuit of strength. He agreed at once. “I would like that, Lord Reed. In fact, I was hoping to suggest it myself,” he declared haughtily.

Lord Reed’s lips twitched, indicating his own disbelief. Lord Stark asked if he should send him his meal.

“I would be most grateful, Lord Stark.”

Once the arrangement was made, Theon walked over to the archery grounds. He controlled his steps—he was a second away from dashing with joy. He imagined Lord Stark would break the news to the alphas soon. They would praise him. There were some men who preferred the damsels but in the North, it was the warriors who caught their attention. They wanted sturdy brides to breed heavy sons. He was fortunate that his was more inclined to a bow than a sword (unlike Jon, who wielded thin blades like they were melted into his hands). Archery was far more elegant. He heard the late Lady Stark was a masterful archer and hunter. Even Lord Reed utilized arrows during the war.

Theon was giddy with delight. His reputation was not only salvageable but growing with each hour. He prepared his leather gloves, a trusted bow, and a standard quiver of arrows. There was no one to spot him but such a matter meant little as long as there was the possibility of bystander to witness his aim.

For this reason, Theon did not bother warming up on the easy range. He needed to make an impression for any wandering eyes. He tussled up his hair for an artfully disheveled look and splashed water on his face so that his face would glisten.

His shots were impeccable from the moment he shot his first arrow. During his practice, he wondered where he should aim if he came across a wild boar or a grown stag. He should not be as bold as to take down the creature himself—though he was confident he could. The alphas would feel emasculated. If he was a part of Domeric’s party, they could work together on the matter. He could shoot a hind leg and allow the older boy to deliver the final blow. Maybe he could catch a few rabbits and gush over his accomplishment—therefore allowing the alphas to pander him with their conceit and patronization. Theon looked forward to it.

He had three arrows left when he finalized his plan. When he got started on the final bundle, he felt a pair of arms wrap around his torso. He gasped. His arrow fell midway through the journey. He tried to turn around to address his assailant, but the man’s grip was firm.

“I was looking for you last night. I would have entered your room but you had company. I am glad it was not another alpha. I doubt I would have handled that too well.” Ramsay dipped his mouth onto Theon’s neck. “Though I am grateful to learn how your body _burns_ for me.” Ramsay’s hands trailed low to fondle his omega’s bottom. Theon struggled to break free.

“Let me go, Ramsay!”

“I do not want to,” he mumbled. “Not when you feel so good in my arms. You are wound tighter than a bounded whore.”

“I will scream.”

“And ruin your precious reputation? No, you care too much about what the others would say. A folly—I’ll have to re-educate you to only care about what _I_ say.”

Theon recalled what Jon had done during their expedition into hand to hand combat. The crannogmen were physically incapable of facing their enemies head on; they were too small. It was why they resorted to their illusions and dirty tricks. They fought with their heads.

Theon bashed his skull against Ramsay’s nose. The younger boy lost his balance as Theon ran to get another arrow from his quiver. He resumed his form and aimed his next shot towards Ramsay. 

Ramsay touched the blood running down his nose. He stared at the pointed shard directed at his face. Then, he addressed the shaking hand and chuckled.

“You’re not going to shoot me.”

“And why wouldn’t I?” Theon asked, sounding bolder than he actually felt. He had no clue what he wanted to do with Ramsay but he needed him gone. He was a liability—a vicious mosquito who would suck his honor and virtue and breed bastards into his womb if he let him get any closer.

Ramsay got up. Theon kept him a target. To his surprise, the bastard walked over to the spare bows and stepped forward towards Theon. When he leaned over to take an arrow, Theon did not shoot. When he strung the bow, Theon remained still. Ramsay raised his arm and focused his aim in Theon’s direction. Theon refused to let go. In a moment, a sharp, streak of wind dashed past his face and landed on the second ring, a few inches away from where Theon’s own arrows stuck. He was good, given the distance. But he was not better than Theon.

“You should leave,” Theon told him. “Whatever came over me last night has been banished from my body.”

“I don’t believe you.” Ramsay looked deep into his eyes. “I can already taste your cunt dripping on my lips. There is no one but me for you.”

Theon scoffed. “You mother must have been a farmer for you are full of shit. I do not need you to satisfy me. I am sure your brother will do just fine.”

The insinuation made Ramsay lose his smirk. “My brother has the personality of an ice pick. You would be better off sticking a frozen branch up quim than to expect pleasure from him.”

“He is worth far more than you.”

“You little—” Ramsay took a deep breath before continuing his sentence. He was cunning, but he had a temper, Theon noted. “You should be cautious with your words, Lord Theon. I don’t think you know where you stand. Why would my brother even want you?”

“I am the son of Balon Greyjoy. My father is the liege lord of the Iron Islands, the captain of the greatest fleet known to Westeros—”

“Your father is a traitor and you are a traitor’s son. You are no better than me.”

Theon dropped his bow and stomped over to the younger boy. He was taller than Ramsay. He just noticed it now. He gripped onto his collar and though his body was lithe, his arms were firm with muscle. “I will not let you sully my name, _bastard_. Leave me alone and I will not admit your offense to Lord Stark. I trust he will keep you silent.”

Ramsay grinned, his madness resembled a starved shark. Before Theon could provide a distance between the two of them, the younger boy pulled Theon into a kiss. Theon resisted with every muscle in his being, only to fall powerless when Ramsay’s teeth pierced his lower lip and forced his mouth apart. Ramsay ravaged his mouth with his tongue. Theon was lost against his loins. When he heard footsteps drawing near, his instinct was not to separate them but to drag Ramsay away into a shed where they could not be seen. 

Alone, Theon had no chance of salvation. He thought about the scandal of being caught in the arms of a bastard. At best, he would be sent back home where he would greet an island filled with iron and tin and other common metals befitting a tavern whore. He focused on biting Ramsay’s ear, relishing the texture of garnet stud on his tongue. Ramsey cupped Theon’s ass, eliciting a giggle from the older boy. He should not be laughing—his virtue was at risk. But he felt more alive than he had his entire life. Ramsay carried no skill in the bedroom but he was wild where it mattered. Theon would feel his cock for days to come if it ever entered him. As Ramsay was about to remove his shirt, a thud from the outside could be heard, accompanied by a complaint about the mess. Theon was paralyzed.

When the noise disappeared, Ramsay returned to his ministrations but was met with a harsh refusal. Theon pushed him away. Ramsay saw the rejection and screamed. He grabbed Theon’s shoulders and pushed him against the shed door. Theon knew that would bruise later. Before Ramsay could strike, Theon kissed him again. He drew him closer to him. Ramsay found his rage dissipating as he became consumed with lust.

Theon was the first to part. He remained close so that their lips touched. “I want you,” he confessed.

Ramsay tried to pull him in for another kiss but Theon refused. “But I don’t want you more than I want _me_ , sitting beside my lord husband and his lands, raising our trueborn children together. I deserve that. You can’t give me that.”

Theon gave him a kiss for his trouble. Ramsay held onto Theon before letting him go. Theon sighed in relief. He did not cast a single look back when he opened the door to leave. But before he passed through it, Ramsay spoke.

“Bastards can rise high in this world.”

Theon heard of such stories, but he did not need a high-ranking bastard when he could get a pureblooded lord. “A pinnacle of a prick means nothing to those who stand on top of a mountain.”

“Yes, but mountains crumble. And brothers die.”

Theon paused. His fingers clench the opening of the door.

“Then perhaps an avalanche is in order.” 

-

When breakfast was done with, the alphas retreated to the training ground for some posturing. Theon joined the ranks of omegas who sat in the shade, the ones who sent the alphas a few thoughtful looks and polite smiles—indicating their attraction but maintaining a façade of nonchalance and exasperation. Alongside them were both the Manderly girls. Wynafryd carried a parasol as she told stories to the omegas about her travels. Her confidence drew omegas to her but made the alphas seethe with rage. Alphas were expected to be segregated from their omega counterparts. Wynafryd was allowed to sit with them in spite of tradition. At breakfast, she claimed she would not be joining the alphas for their training. “I am more prone to pen than sword,” she said, before declaring that her responsibilities to White Harbor encouraged her to focus on her studies rather than her spars. When one of the alphas gave her grievance, she responded in kind. 

“I find jousting and sparring and wrestling for play primitive. There are other pursuits worth investigating. Like caring for one’s children or providing for one’s omega. You may find me cowardly, to care so little for aggression, but I intend to settle my disputes with my tongue, not my hand.” She sipped her morning drink. “And I assure you, my tongue is quite skilled.”

The omegas flushed and swoon; even Jon was entranced by her poise. He found himself falling for her tales of Dorne and Volantis and admired her position on civil pursuits. She was wealthy enough to afford the individuality but used her oddities to her advantage. Her sister, on the other hand, was fidgeting like a hummingbird amongst a field of flowers.

Wynafryd followed his gaze. She placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder and drew her close. “Though, that is not to say I do not respect The Warrior and his efforts. My family is quite active in the military. While I do not partake in martial pursuits; I do not expect the Warrior to end his influence on us.” She smiled at Jon with the pride of a mother. “My sister hopes to join the ranks of the _skjaldmær_ , like our grandmother and of course, your mother, who I dare say is the most famous _skjaldmær_ alive. I heard from my grandfather that you may usurp such a title.”

Jon giggled. He could not control himself. His red face betrayed his composure. “You flatter me, Lady Wynafryd.”

“How could I not?” She leaned towards Jon and whispered in the tongue that made Jon shiver, “To have such a beautiful creature in my presence and not give him praise is a crime that the Old Gods and the New agree upon.”

Jon was moved to a point he did not notice the older girl caressing his hand. They pulled away from their conversation at the sound of a boulder hitting the dirt. They turned their attentions to the courtyard. Robb had disarmed Eddard Karstark and forced him to the ground. His breaths were hard and heavy. He looked up so that he could capture Jon’s gaze. Jon needed nothing else to capture his complete attention. Robb was covered in sweat and grime and Jon wanted nothing more than to wash him in the springs, to lather his body with milk and rub soap suds into his skin. When he returned to reality, he saw that Robb was glaring at them—no, glaring at _Wynafryd_. And she was facing him without remorse. When Jon looked down, he noticed he was still being held and pulled himself back. He turned away—ashamed of his mocked infidelity.

Wynafryd smirked, the way ladies do when they are scheming against their enemies. She unlocked the door of their pen and walked over to the training grounds. She clapped. Her alpha peers startled, alarmed by her intrusion. “Wonderful! I am overwhelmed by your skill, Lord Robb. Tell me, do you always fight with such passion?”

Robb gripped his wooden sword until blisters invaded his hands. “I try to give my best in all my endeavors,” he told her. “Especially surrounded by alphas courting my brother.”

She laughed. “A necessary thing for one with a beauty for a brother,” Wynafryd agreed. Robb narrowed his eyes. “But you are an inspiration. I feel inclined to join you on today’s hunt. It would be a good time to bond over shared interests.”

“Do not be offended, Lady Wynafryd, but you are not the type of person I expect to partake in a hunt.”

“Nonsense,” Wynafryd disagreed. “I do join parties on occasion. I find a lack of activity to be crippling.”

Robb paused. He turned to his sparring companions who offered no disagreement and would not be able to in fear of stirring the Manderly wrath. “You are full of surprises, Lady Wynafryd. I hope you do not find our practices barbaric. From reputation, you shun violence.”

“A misconception, I am glad to say.” Wynafryd smiled regardless. “I believe a good lord will fight for his men but a great one will make sure they never lift a sword.”

Jon held his breath. Robb was looking at Wynafryd as if she summoned the devil to their playground and was hiding him in her bosom. Finally, Robb held out his hand and agreed.

“There are no truer words spoken. I would be honored to have you there.”

-

After the practice, they retreated to their rooms for proper attire. It was a sunny afternoon. The amount of layers they had on initially would have been too restricting. Jon was helping Robb put on his jerkin when the older boy spun around and pulled Jon into a rough kiss. Jon gasped when he was released. He brought one of his hands to cradle Robb’s face. When they pulled away, Jon rested a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“You are jealous,” Jon stated, though he did not sound upset.

“A beautiful alpha, with money and prestige, comes into my home and declares her intentions to court you. Her father is a loyalist and a friend to the crannogmen. Her family has ties to yours. How could I be happy?” Robb sounded pained. As threatened as he was by Wynafryd, her challenges contrasted his strengths. He could dismember a man in seconds, even an Umber, but a Manderly who carried her blades in her head was an entirely different matter altogether.

Jon kissed him as if his lips was snow resting on top of a tree. “She is a good ally to have in the future. Did you hear what she was saying about her sister?”

“I was training, Jon. I could only see her hands upon yours.”

Jon disregarded the petulance. “Her sister intends to be a _skjaldmær._ If they are acting in favor of their family, then we should not be surprised to see Wylla standing in front of the White Harbor fleet as captain one day. History has taught them not to let power escape their family.”

“So you are saying I should be her friend?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Jon disagreed. He looked up at his brother through his lashes. “I can be her friend.”

Robb tensed. Jon could feel his nerves itching the tips of his fingers. He hid his smirk and when Robb forced him against the wall, he tried not to laugh.

“I will be civil,” he promised. “ _You_ keep your distance.”

Jon made no promises but the kiss that brought Robb to his knees.

-

While the horses were being prepared and the men were readying their crossbows and spears, Jon resolved to spend his free moments with his siblings. He saw too little of them as of late. He asked a serving girl if she had seen them and she responded that they were separated. Jojen and Bran were huddled near the fireplace in their family’s drawing room while Arya, Meera, and Wylla were taking advantage of the alphas’ departure to train. Meera had the option of joining the hunt but opted to stay behind so that she could spend time with her cousin. Wylla joined them after overhearing their conversation. Meera loved nothing more than to spend time with the fiery omega. The Manderly was fascinated by martial techniques of the crannogman. Meera was elated by the presence of her new student. 

Inwardly, Jon was relieved by their attraction. If Meera could secure a marriage to the Manderlys, their families would remain on good terms.

When Jon entered the courtyard, he saw that the numbers were greater than he imagined. Lyanna was present—the toddler grasped onto her training spear with a sway in her step. It was too heavy for her. Jon snuck up from behind to swooped her into his lap. While she squealed her protest, she was soothed by the familiar smell of dew that danced on top of all Reeds. He sunk his nose into the nape of her head. She smelled like wild pine and berries.

The training went by smoothly. Ser Rodrik was accompanying the alphas on their trip. He was not there to instruct them. Meera performed well in her tutelage. When he was her age, he was given the responsibility to help the crannog children learn their steps as well. He’d forgotten that Meera was the same age as he when he first left. He kissed Lyanna’s head and hummed. He would keep a careful eye on his sister. She was like their mother, skilled and vicious, but had her father’s aptitude for patience. If the gods were wise, they’d choose her to receive the Neck. Jon knew nothing of Jojen’s ambition, or of any desire that was not related to Bran.

Speaking of which, he gently removed Lyanna from his lap and kissed her on the top of her head before he left. She was small—small enough that one would wonder if she had any bear in her at all. His sisters were still practicing. He was not able to say goodbye.

Afterwards, Jon journeyed to the bedroom where he was sure to witness his brothers bonding. He opened the door and saw that in Jojen’s lap was a book not a boy. Bran stuck to his side reading scriptures. On the other side of him were items he could not see. When Jon spread the entrance further, Bran jumped. He tried to hide the contents but Jojen stopped him.

“It is only Jon,” Jojen soothed.

“But—!”

Jon walked over to the two boys and kissed them both on the cheek. He asked the younger of the two to show what they have learned. “I have never known such talents. My perchance for the arts ends with a flicker of flame or a cooling breath. Tell me, Bran, where have you been since I last saw you? I know you were getting dreams of the beyond.”

Bran did not answer. Jojen spoke for him. “We were casting on dolls. It is an old art—”

“And a forbidden one,” interrupted Jon. He did not sound angry. His thoughts were neutral on the matter. He wanted to investigate and allowed his brothers the chance for explanation.

“But a useful one,” protested Jojen. “We have made great progress. Bran can give a man sweats in another castle and have him listen to voices when he is in another room. We have been practicing.”

“I am proud he is so accomplished.” Jon bent down so that he was sitting across from them. He glanced over the writings. The ink was faded and illegible. Bran read the magic with ease. He was destined to be another Brynden Rivers if he continued this path, or perhaps rise higher to sit beside Shiera Seastar. Jon flipped through the pages. “Tell me, Bran, can any of these spells work over long distances?”

“What do you mean?”

Jon leaned in. “If I asked for you to watch over our brother and give action to those who wished him harm, could you do that?”

Bran hesitated and then nodded.

“Could you make me do that?”

“Jon,” Jojen warned. “What you are asking for can only be done if you possess the inclination. If not, the damage to your mind cannot be undone.” 

“The Stark and Reed line is made up of wargs and dreamers. You cannot possibly believe there is no water in my well.” He turned to Bran and kissed him. “Perhaps it is time I remove the blockade.” 

Jojen was reluctant, but Bran was already flipping through the pages to find the right spell. He showed it to Jon, who saw the black marks and moving lines that meant nothing to him. “We can try,” Bran agreed. “I can give you the body of a bird.”

Jon hummed thoughtfully. “I have always wanted to fly.”

-

The hunting party was divided into two groups. Robb was given leadership parallelled to his father’s position. The land they were assigned was not grand by any means—the game was small and meek and the grass grew with fertility that rivaled the Iron Islands. Nonetheless, it was more than Robb could ask for his first expedition. Half of Ned Stark’s guardsmen were instructed to aid Robb’s group. They were sent as a precaution and though one of the Umbers jeered at the thought of a nursemaid, Lady Manderly agreed that men of importance needed protection.

“Spares are disposable,” she quipped rather cruelly to the second son.

Rodrik Umber glared. He was the most vocal about her frivolity. She was dressed in wears finer than the entire lot combined. She wore an engraved leather coat made to resemble dragonscales and a fine skirt thick with the wool of the Westeros’ finest sheep. Beside her was a crossbow, though she did not seem particularly keen to use it.

Robb remained on his best behavior. To be fair, he appreciated the defense but could not tell whether she aimed to please him or mock him. The Manderly had kept her distance for the last two days; she was far more interested in her omegan company than she was bonding with her brethren.

The Umber prepared his steed. “I did not come to Winterfell to be insulted by an alpha who fashions herself after whores.” He declared, laying an accusatory glance on the rouge on her lips.

“Odd you feel that way. Your sister was fawning over the shade last night.”

Rodrik roared. Wynafryd’s horse attempted to back away from the stomping giant but the girl gripped her crossbow with the possibility for an attack. Before he got off his horse for a spar, Robb ordered their silence.

“If you two will not be civil, then be apart. You are scaring off the game with your bickering,” he snapped.

Wynafryd’s grip on her weapon remained. Rodrik took out his axe. Finally, Wynafryd smiled and placed her bow back into its holster. “Of course, my lord. I live to serve.” She took her mare towards the direction of the river. The Umber glared but followed suit in the opposite direction.

Robb sighed. He surveyed the rest of his group members. So far, only the Mormont girls were successful in bagging in meat. Theon was a few yards away, overlooking a cliff and making small talk with Lord Domeric. Robb made sure to keep an eye on him, as his responsibility of a guardian. Today, he did not care much for hunting—not when Jon was not present.

“Well done, Lord Robb,” he heard someone praise. Robb turned around to see Lord Bolton’s natural born son coming up towards him. “Your father could not have handle the situation better.”

“You flatter me.” Robb paused. “You are…Ramsay, correct?”

Ramsay nodded. “I wanted to make my acquaintance. My brother is quite taken with Lord Theon and has forgotten my presence. It seems I am without company. Most noblemen do not want to be associated with my kind.”

“I hold no such prejudices,” Robb declared. He traveled a bit further to keep an eye on their progress and beckoned Ramsay to follow. The bastard did so without complaint.

“I do not blame my brother for his abandonment. Your father’s ward is an exceptional beauty. Tell me, what is your secret for resisting so long?”

Robb laughed. “There is no secret. Our cycles never matched. He is a brother to me.” More so than his own, he confessed inwardly.

Ramsay hummed. “A blessing and a curse it is, to have brothers so beautiful. After Jon, you must deal with three more ceremonies and three more groups of alphas begging for your siblings hands. I cannot imagine being in your shoes. I’d be flaying them by the dozens.”

“It is a hardship, I’ll admit.” He stared in the direction he last saw Lady Wynafryd. He ignored Ramsay’s last statement, finding him more sympathetic than horrifying. “I had not expected the aggression of these suitors. My brother has never met an alpha that was not family or service. I worry for his innocence. I would hate for these men and women to force their corruption upon him.”

“Forgive me for my boast, but I am happy not to be in your wears.”

Robb chuckled. Ramsay joined him in his amusement.

“Tell me,” Robb asked. “Why are you here? I understand that as a natural son, your father must have encouraged you to court my younger brother. Yet, I have not seen you speak to him since your arrival. Is he not to your taste?”

He was half-joking. If Ramsay was clever, Robb would not be surprised if the boy was befriending him for the approval to court Jon privately. Robb would never grant such a request, but he was not rash enough to make judgments. Ramsay seemed like a fine fellow.

“I assure you, my lord. You have nothing to fear from me. I appreciate flowers that bloom in winter, but I prefer my omegas salted and sun kissed.”

The words surprised Robb who followed his peer’s eyes towards Theon. The older boy was nodding in agreement of whatever the Bolton heir suggested. The Stark felt a pang of sympathy towards his companion. He, too, knew the pains of a love that could never be. Unlike Ramsey, he was in a position to fight for it.

“I heard Theon’s appearance is common where he is from. Perhaps if the means come upon you, you should travel there.”

His suggestion was callous, but Robb knew that Theon was too proud to reciprocate the affections of a bastard. If not for Jon’s recognition by both his parents, they would not have been friends.

Ramsay considered the advice before dismissing it with good humor. “My father would send me on a saddle to the nearest harbor if he thought it would rid himself of me. But I am afraid the heart is an entirely different matter. Tell me, Robb, would you abandon the object of your affections so easily?”

Robb thought of Jon, he thought of his father and Howland and the love they shared. He apologized to Ramsay. “Forgive me, I have insulted you.” 

Ramsay chuckled. “A humble lord you are—apologizing to _me_.” His expression took a turn as his teeth, sharpened as the daggers in his holster and white as the snow on the ground, gleamed at him. “I may be a bastard but I am destined for great things. One day, your foster brother will see that and he will be begging to sit by my side.” 

Before Robb made his first appearance outside of Winterfell, he believed Jon’s treatment to be commonplace. He found out how wrong he was when he saw a boy with the name Snow being beaten for spilling drink on his lady, the wife of his father. To be here, to be recognized as Lord Bolton's bastard son meant he was worth more than many in his position.

“Your words are wise,” Robb agreed. “Lord Reed, Jon's mother, once wrote that 'children conceived in passion are designed to follow theirs to the fullest extent.' I do not doubt your ability to turn your gossipers into subjects of slander.” Robb recalled a few letters denying Lord Stark’s invitation to his brother's ceremony. They were insulted. They refused to give attention to a bastard--no matter how defined his lineage was. Robb curbed his own anger by reminding himself that those same people would one day have to bow down to Jon as their lord.

Ramsay was pleased by the notion. They heard the bushes shuffle and the leaves sway from the birds dancing in between branches. The day was extraordinarily quiet. Robb hoped the men fared better with their endeavors. Ramsay returned to watching his brother and mate—however adamant the boy was in denying him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow creeping upon them.

“Did you see that?”

Robb was already preparing his arrow. He tried to position himself for the best shot but found his grip shaky. The beast was hiding. From the size of his shadow, Robb assumed it was either a stag or a large boar—one that had traveled too far for his next meal.

“I cannot see him,” Robb admitted. He lowered his arrow at the same time Ramsay held up his. Robb watched the direction of the point. If Robb did not know any better, he would assume the bastard was aiming elsewhere.

“Careful, you might hit someone.”

Ramsay’s grip remained firm. “Do not distract me, my lord. I am supposed to be concentrating.”

Robb stared. He turned back to the scene before him. He saw a horn. “You appear to have prowess in archery. If that is the case, I suggest you shoot. But understand that if it were to land on something other than your intended target, contesting your innocence would not be an easy task.”

The statement forced Ramsay to falter. He flinched. His cool gaze turned into a heated glare—he was contemplating his options. Robb saw the bloodlust in his eyes and he understood the need to stop the chaos, if for nothing more than to keep Jon’s name from being further sullied. One bastard's crime meant punishment for them all. 

The decision was made for them. Out of nowhere, the boar—a vicious beast with a dirt crusted coat and tusks as big as a man’s arms—was forced out of his hiding place by the call of a crow, warning them of a falling tree branch. The creature ran out of the way and dived straight into the legs of the horses before him.

“Shit!” swore Robb. Ramsay used his prepared arrow on the rampaging creature but managed only to hit backside. With the newfound pain, the boar became incensed. He charged towards Theon’s horse and knocked him off his steed. Up close, they saw that the pig was comparable to the horse. The tusks hit the hind legs and the blood gushed all over Theon’s body. Domeric tried to dismantle himself to defend Theon, but he was beaten by Ramsay who already prepared his second arrow and shot again. Robb utilized Ramsay as a distraction and charged towards the creature. He used his hunting spear to pierce the boar’s head. The pig fell to the ground—his head was crushed against the ground.

The two young men, bastard and heir, got off their horses. Robb helped Theon up. He asked for his condition and once he confirmed his health, moved over to appraise the creature, a dagger in his hand for safety. Ramsay moved to join Robb, but was pulled into an embrace by Theon.

“You are a better archer than I gave you credit for,” he praised. He was covered in blood. Ramsay had never seen a higher beauty and took the opportunity to kiss his hand.

“It was an honor to defend you.”

Theon smiled, the way omegas are taught to smile when they are hiding their lusts. Ramsay could smell the arousal off him. He would definitely be getting rewarded tonight.

From a distance, two pairs of eyes followed the bundle of four. Domeric Bolton noted the closeness of his brother and fiancé’s interaction, he saw the sweetness of Theon’s smile and compared it to the haughty nature he received from the boy. Then, he caught the satisfaction in his half-brother’s grin. Ramsay looked up to meet his gaze. Domeric burned when he saw the contents of his gleam.

Pride.

From afar, the crow cawed as if waking up from a dream.

\- 

Jon opened his eyes. When he raised from the covers, he saw Bran resting in Jojen’s arms. His breathing was regular. His expression was at peace. Jon sighed in relief. “Is he well?”

“I would not have forgiven you if he was not.”

Jon gave him a meek expression. Jojen sounded more disappointed in Jon than he thought possible for little brothers to be. Jojen turned back to Bran and ran his fingers through his hair. “You were right, though. You are a _warg_. Though I recommend you refrain from partaking in your gifts for nothing. You are not as strong as you think you are.”

Jon agreed with Jojen’s verdict. The headache surfacing was enough to convince him that he must reserve his newfound abilities for issues of the utmost importance.

“How was it?” Once his fears were unconfirmed, Jojen was left with his curiosity.

Jon opened his mouth but no words came out. He touched his arms but there were no feathers. He pressed his fingers against his mouth and only felt the soft pucker of his lips.

If he were to look into a mirror, Jon would not have recognized himself.

-

After the hunt, the meat was taken away to be cured. Robb Stark beamed when his father acknowledged him. Lord Bolton had never known Ned to be a proud man, but he made sure his son was not without praise. Lord Bolton did not mind recogonizing the Stark heir’s valor, but found himself unnerved when his own bastard was given attention.

Roose desired nothing more than to disregard the entire event, but when he entered his guest quarters and saw his eldest waiting for him, he knew there was a more serious issue at hand. Domeric was playing with the leeches—a habit from his childhood he resorted to when he was stressed. He never saw his son happier than when he was crushing the creatures—letting the blood gush out when they were squished or having their remains drip over his fingers.

“What are you doing here, Domeric?”

Domeric took a pen and stuck the tip through the leech’s body. The blood dripped off the table. “I’ve made a grave mistake with Ramsay."

“You see your folly now? When your pride has shattered?” Roose sat on the opposing chair. “Today was a disgrace.”

Domeric’s face betrayed nothing. “I thought I could use him. The way that peasant whore painted him—wild, unruly, _soulless_ —I figured he’d make good company for the future.”

“You asked for a monster. You were given a rabid dog.” Roose held no sympathies for fools, even those who spurred from his loins. “I thought your pride knew no bounds when you asked for him to be sent to the Dreadfort.”

“I made a mistake,” Domeric admitted. “They say for every genius, a lord breeds ten fools. You’ve beaten the odds, father. Your bastard has become a threat.”

“You have given him the power to become one.”

“Then, I will put a leash on this rabid beast.”

“If it were so easy, it would have already been done.”

“It will be done.”

“If you say so.”

Domeric glared.

Roose sighed. “If you need to dispose of him, do so in a manner that will leave you blameless. I will not allow rumors of kinslaying to enter my home.”

For the brief moment, Roose caught sight of his son’s pure, unadulterated anger. His facade was slipping. Roose pursed his lips in disgust. Domeric spoke again when he was composed.

“Does this mean I have your permission to act as I see fit?”

“You are not a child whose behavior needs to be guarded and dictated. Act, don't act, but do not believe that you shall receive my protection for all grievances. You are both my sons and if one of you were to fall, there is the other to replace him.”

Domeric took in the words as he would a fine wine. He requested a pardon and left the room. His brother was located in the bottom wing. He should pay him a visit—but then he heard the rich laughter of a serving wench and was reminded of more preferable company.

When he moved his brother to the Dreadfort, his intention was to instill a sense of loyalty into the bastard. As much as he respected his father’s values of a peaceful land and quiet people, he knew that some orders required enforcement. Monsters made the best killers.

The problem was controlling them and Domeric was too proud a man to recognize his own shortcomings in the area.

Ramsay never wanted anything that Domeric was not willing to give up. The Bolton heir refused every inane request and was met with further bitterness, resentment that would only fester in the act of kinslaying. Before Domeric could send him away, the invitations for Lord Stark’s ward and son were sent. Domeric could not resist. When he saw the Greyjoy, he made his intentions known. He desired Theon—that ample bosom and pretty face was hard to resist—but history repeated itself and Domeric knew that Ramsay wanted the boy as well.

Domeric left the halls to travel to where he heard the Stark ward was staying. His aggressions have been too subtle. It was time to remind the traitor’s spawn who he was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sometimes I wonder if I made this story dark enough to warrant the warnings I’ve given it. But then I get a request for cuddles. And here we are. I had to reread a few chapters of ASOIAF and then watch the clips for GOT to write this. I think watching the Iwan Rheon skewed up my vision of Ramsay. I have a thing for Welsh men. In the television series, they made him out to be this super villain who was always several steps ahead. In the books, Ramsay is cunning and quick-witted but has no aptitude for the long game (Ironically, Robb shares this same quality). Jon, on the other hand, is depicted as being short-sighted in the television series but is quite the strategist in the books. I also love Wynafryd, who is depicted as meek initially but is later revealed to be the only person Lord Wyman trusts with his secret plans—meaning her grandfather trusts her over his own son. I love both adaptions so I’m taking bits and pieces from both to make the characters in this story. 
> 
> 2\. Also, I apologize for the late update. I promised to get this out by Monday but it is 12:36 AM HST on Tuesday. I am sorry. I procrastinated again. The only upside is that I get to wish you all a Happy Halloween! I doubt anybody cares but I was a modern-day Margaery Tyrell. 
> 
> 3\. But, in the future, I would like to warn people if I am late. I made a twitter [@cheshiresua](https://twitter.com/CheshireSua) and I will be using it to also give previews of my chapters. I am trying to get more involved with social media. As I mentioned before, I have a website: [Murder at the Cathouse](http://www.murderatthecathouse.com). 
> 
> With that being said, thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed it so far and I look forward to your input and opinions!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The Bolton boys being the Bolton boys and Theon baring the brunt of it. Underage blowjobs?

Though their hunting groups returned without fatalities, many of the men and women were not without their injuries. The beasts of the woods were desperate for more days on this earth and the members of their party were reckless with their weapons and ambitious with their drink. Maester Luwin was assigned to cater to the older lords and ladies. The younger alphas were left to their own devices. Since they were sent to the calmer regions, they were allocated scrapes and bruises but nothing beyond what they would have received for rough-housing.

The omegas came upon them their soft bodies and suggestive touches. They were eager to spread their sweet smelling lotions and soothing salves. Many approached Robb with the intention of cooing at his verve, only to be stopped in their tracks by Jon. He all but growled at them to stay away.

Robb’s younger brother ordered Robb to undress under the guise of dressing his wounds. Robb smirked and followed his command, allowing Jon to drink up the image of his roughened form. Once at his mercy, Jon grabbed a dampened towel and took his time to teased the body before him. There was not a spot of flesh left untouched. Jon was liberal with his creams, massaging them into the bruises and cuts. When Robb hissed at a particularly deep wound, Jon whispered his apology with a nip on his ear. Jon traveled down until he reached calves and then stopped. With a gentle squeeze, he leaned over and asked Robb, “Do you want a reward for your valor today?”

Robb moaned. Jon kissed his brother on the cheek before abandoning him to retrieve the medicine. Robb tried to control his breathing. His little brother was biding his time, tempting him with swaying hips and wet lips. He hid his erection by crossing his legs. As more alphas shuffled out of the room, Jon continued to play with Robb’s control. He became clumsier; he began dropping tools and bandages so that Robb could get a look of his perfect ass. What was worse was when Jon began to attend to other alphas instead of devoting all his time to his true alpha. Robb clenched his fist when he heard his little brother’s giggle, fleeting and flirtatious—open and wanton.

Robb recognized that his whore needed to be disciplined more thoroughly.  

Jon sensed his antagonism but refused to indulge his whims. He continued his duties and doused the other alphas with more charm than they have been introduced to during their stay. Even some alphas who arrived for the purpose of meeting Theon were entranced. The room cleared without haste; every agonizing second served to incense Robb, who wanted nothing more than to rip apart Jon’s dressing and ravish him against the table. Finally, Beth Cassel arrived to warn them that they were to all bathe or participated in the curing that was to come. Maester Luwin wanted the room cleared and cleaned when they arrived. “Unless you all wish to help? We could use the assistance.”

The alphas hustled out with resistance, leaving Robb and Jon alone. As soon as the last man left, Robb stood up in a fury, his erection at full mass. “You little tease! I should—!”

Before he could finish his sentence, Jon dropped to his knees. The younger boy hastily freed Robb’s manhood. Jon pretended to pay no mind to Robb’s shock. Looking up through his pretty lashes, he begged so prettily for Robb’s forgiveness. “I’ve wanted you alone since I heard about your accomplishment. I am sorry. You were just too much for me; I couldn’t be near you without having a taste.”

He rubbed Robb’s erection against his face. Jon was small—the cock against his cheek looked obscene, more so when a sliver of pre-cum staining his skin. Jon tried not to laugh when he saw Robb’s face. Instead, he silenced himself by sucking on the tip. Jon was too short to grind his hips against the floor but his own cock was aching. Instead, he focused on pleasuring his lord.

Robb groaned while he watched his little brother slurp up his cock like a delicacy. Both the boy’s hands were on him. Robb gripped Jon’s curls and tried to force more down Jon’s throat. The added pressure gave Jon a jolt. 

Jon felt like he was melting. He swallowed an inch down and Robb's cock was hitting his throat like he was _inside_ Jon. The sensation reminded Jon of the way Robb would put his fingers inside his ass and tease his cunt with his tongue.

I want to have sex, Jon thought. I want Robb to fuck my holes like he fucks my mouth.

Jon swallowed down another inch. He was gagging for three more. His throat squeezed down to ensure Robb’s cooperation.

“Fuck!” Robb swore. He could not believe how tight his little brother was! He started hitting the back of Jon’s throat because it felt _so damn_ _good_ to be inside him. He kept ramming it in deeper, hoping to hit him in a special spot that did not exist. 

Jon was as wet as a dam. He tried to focus on pleasuring Robb but all he could think of how hard Robb was thrusting into his throat. Jon felt close and he wondered how anybody could resist coming with Robb’s musk overwhelming their senses. He smelled like an alpha, Jon thought, hazy and blissed out. He smelled like _his_ alpha. To get more of that luxurious scent, Jon forced whatever he could get down his throat.

“The fucking Gods, Jon!” Robb hoped there was no one in the halls. There was no way he was leaving Jon’s throat without filling him up. He wanted the boy stuffed with cream from the inside out.

Jon desired nothing else but to swallow every last drop of Robb’s essence. He tried to tighten his throat, clench it, gulp his brother’s cock down until he was choking and Robb was coming buckets. He did not have to try much harder when Robb rammed all the way inside him and came.

Robb released his grip on his brother’s head. He retrieved his dick out and leaned against the table to support himself. Jon was swallowing down as much as he could but the cum spilled out of his mouth and he was drooling cum. To save it from the floor, Jon cupped his hands to collect the extra semen. He licked it off his fingers while Robb watched. Youth was a curse in this instance. The Stark heir could feel his cock getting hard again.

He should just ram it inside Jon’s ass if his little brother was still craving cock, he thought. 

Jon looked at him knowingly. “You are thinking about fucking me, aren’t you?”

Robb was taken back by the accusation. He steadied himself by asking how he could not. “You’re so desperate. Has the knowledge of my efforts make me more desirable? Should I kill something else for your pleasure?”

His father had taught him that such practices, killing alphas for sport and whatnot, was archaic. Omegas were more than prizes to be won and Ned Stark trained all his children according to these beliefs. Yet, Robb knew in spite of his father’s teachings, he heard from Lord Reed that their coupling was most intense whenever Robb’s father proved victorious. 

Jon finished licking the last of his sullied fingers. He got off his knees and asked Robb if he wanted to return to their bedroom.

“We can enjoy ourselves before tonight,” Jon suggested as he licked the shell of Robb’s ear. “I’ll let you rut between my thighs.” He pressed his supple body against Robb. His body was hot and flushing. His crotch was wet. Robb was tempted to slip a finger inside when he saw something alarming. He pushed his lover away and grabbed his arm.

“Robb—!”

“Where did you get this wound?”

Jon wondered what he was referring to when he saw the lesions on his arm. It was the same place Bran had touched him for the ritual. He pulled away.

“I was training with the other omegas,” Jon lied. He composed himself and looked into Robb’s eyes. With a tilt of his head and a pout on his lips, he asked Robb if he thought him weak because he was an omega. “Just because we’re not alphas does not mean we are not well trained—unless you mean to tell me you’ve been going easy on me these last sparring matches?” His question bordered a threat.

Robb defended himself immediately. “No! You are one of the best fighters I know, Jon.” He sighed. “I just don’t like knowing you got hurt.”

“It's just a bruise,” Jon soothed. He put the arm out of reach so that Robb could not stare. If he did, Jon feared he would see that it was not the mark of training but something more sinister. He touched Robb’s cheek. “You’ve given me far bigger bruises.”

Jon’s thumb slipped into Robb’s mouth. Robb sucked on it and pulled his little brother closer. Before they could share a kiss, the door opened and they parted like a head on a chopping block.

“There you two are. You two always forget about your duties whenever you are together.” Howland pointed out as he walked through the door. He pretended not to be alarmed by Robb’s state of undress or his son’s swollen lips. Before either could defend themselves, Howland spoke again. “Robb, the alphas are getting ready to prepare the meat. Your father wants you to be there. Said something about skinning the beast of a boar you brought home.”  

Robb hesitated. He stared at Jon with longing in his eyes—much to the chagrin of Howland. It was the Gods’ miracle they were not caught yet. 

“I don’t think he likes being kept waiting," Howland pressed. 

Robb reluctantly complied. He kissed Jon on the lips—chastely for the sake of appearances—and promised to see him at dinner. As he headed for the doorway, Howland tossed him his shirt. “I think you will find that to be useful,” Lord Reed suggested. “And please fixed those pants of yours. They look undone.”

Robb gaped. He tried to get an explanation from Jon but the boy merely blushed. Robb turned away, but prior to him leaving the door, Lord Reed informed Robb that he did well today. “I’m very proud of you, Robb.”

Jon was surprised by the compliment, as was Robb. Once he got over his shock, the Stark heir puffed up with pride and left to help his father.

Jon attempted to escape as well but then Howland redirected his attention towards him. The Lord of the Neck grabbed his son’s arm to check the bruises he knew to be there. “Such an ugly mark on your pretty skin,” Howland mused. “I thought I sensed sorcery in the woods.”  

Jon pulled his hand away. “It was a warging spell. Nothing dark.” His mother performed much worse in his youth. “Given my bloodline, I am bound to come into the gift eventually.” What did it matter that he skipped a few years?

“Our gifts come to us when we are ready to receive them. We do not decide when that is so. These marks are a warning.” Howland sighed. “I worry for you, Jon. These forces are dark and tempting. If you do not control them, they control you.”

“Because power corrupts and the spirits possess those who fall at the mercy of desire,” Jon recited. There were thousands of quotes and passages ingrained in his head. “I may be a Stark, mother, but I am still a crannogman. I remember our teachings.”

Howland smiled, though there was a tinge sadness attached to it. He kissed his son’s forehead and told him to get ready for dinner. “Promise me you will not do it again—not until the Gods call upon you to do so. I will never forgive myself if you lost your mind to these enchantments.”

Jon nodded. “I promise, mother. You do not have to worry about me.”

Howland accepted his vow and shooed him away. When he was out of the doors, Howland returned to original intention. He grabbed a few pots from Luwin’s spare collection and filled them up with the soil from outside. Once they were properly filled, he took out a bag from his pocket and placed a handful of different seeds and plant life into the pots. He whispered his spells into each one.

Howland warned Maester Luwin not to interfere with their growth. He made up the excuse that wanted Jon to familiarize himself with the Neck's flora. As Howland prepared for future sprouts, he felt a prick on his finger. He looked down and saw the vivacious pincers of centipede digging into his flesh.

Howland grabbed the beast and let it dangle in the air. The creature was fighting for freedom—its teeth were snapping and its legs twitched. Still holding onto its body, Howland grabbed a nearby jar and dropped it in. Such a deformity should not go to waste, he thought. There were plenty of uses for it.  

***

Howland never bothered to knock on Bran’s door; he was never surprised by the incrimination he witnessed whenever he entered. Jojen spared his mother a mere glance before returning to his ‘playmating.’ Howland scoffed at his insolence. They were far beyond _playing_. His youngest alpha was _scenting_ Bran. The omega was rooted firmly in Jojen’s lap, baring his neck in submission and allowing Jojen’s hands to wander underneath his robes. Howland was tempted to pull them apart—Jojen was moving far too fast for his liking. The only consolation to their behavior was that they were children. The only reason they were allowed in the same room alone was because Jojen, as precocious as he was, was rutless. The boy had another five years before the fever was even a possibility.

Then again, Howland thought tiredly, he had been wrong before.

“I brought a present for Bran,” Howland announced. He sat down in front of the two boys and revealed the contents of the jar. Bran gasped when he saw the prickling creature—how it tackled the glass and gnaws at its prison walls. Bran reached out to grab it, only to have his hand captured by Jojen’s own.

“There are far better gifts in the world,” Jojen pointed out. He glared, much to his mother’s distain. Jojen took Bran’s reaching hand and brought it to his mouth for a kiss. Howland noted the lesion—positioned exactly where Jon’s was—and allowed sympathy to passed through his heart. His son may be defiant, but he was not without cause.

“I do not intend to harm him,” Howland defended. “And to suggest such a thing makes me wonder if your connection to your cousin has made you insolent. If so, I will rectify such behavior. _With distance_.”

Jojen cradled Bran closer to his body. He became a child once more. “No, mother. I apologize for my disrespect.” He shoved his nose into Bran’s hair. Then, overwhelmed by his sweet scent, started sucking on his neck. The boy giggled.

“Jojen, stop it! You’re tickling me!”

Howland rolled his eyes. “Jojen, he is a babe.”

“Am not!” Bran argued. His pout could be seen by a blind man. “Jojen said he was going to mate me as soon as I can bear his children.”

Howland glared at his youngest son, who had the audacity to shrug. “You always told me to be prepared.”

“Well, the least you could do _for your mother_ is prepare me.”

Jojen hummed. He did not answer Howland’s accusatory glare but instead refocused on the creature sitting between them. “What is this? Bran is tired. He and Jon were playing all afternoon.”

The number of things ‘playing’ has become euphemism for is astounding. He needed to improve his son’s lexicon.

“Another game for Bran. I would like to see something.” Howland crawled over to lift Bran out of Jojen’s arms—much to the older boy’s protest. Bran merely asked what they were going to do.

“Do you need me to get the box? The one with the eyes?”

Howland smiled and the sight was as lovely as blue roses in the gardens. “No, my darling. Those spells are for when you are much older.” He kissed Bran’s lips as if he were his own. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he should have been.

Howland set Bran down. He opened the jar and ignored the intensity of Jojen’s gaze. The boy would throw the worst tantrum if Bran got a splinter, let alone the magical backlash of a misfired spell. He took out the fearsome bug and dropped it onto the ground. Freed from its confines, the beast roamed around the floor with vicious intent. When it reared its ugliness close to Bran, Jojen almost lunged at it—only for its body to be constrained by an unseen force.

Howland kissed Bran’s head again and took his hand in his. Bran watched as the centipede was levitated off the ground. He saw the green and gold and gasped as the colors formed a fog around the bug’s body. Howland told him to concentrate on its body. He wanted him to lift it up himself.

Bran grinned. Without hesitation, the gold transformed into silver and instead of the bright reflection of leaves, the green darkened to a transfixing emerald. He mastered levitation ages ago.

“Such a spectacular child you are,” Howland praised. Howland felt his heart lightened by the sight. Even if they were not joined by blood, Bran’s gifts were proof that he was meant to be _his_. He moved onto the next activity. “Now, I want you to remove its legs.”

_“What?”_

The creature was released. Once it dropped to the floor, it tried to escape when it recognized that victory was no longer an option. Howland pulled it back before it could.

Jojen jumped to Bran’s defense. “Mother, what you are requesting is cruel!”

“No crueler than what the rest of this world will ask of him,” Howland defended. He hushed Bran’s concerns with another kiss and an explanation. “I was going to end this creature’s life earlier today—when it bit me. I kept it alive for you. I wanted to see what you coulddo.”

Bran was hesitant, as sweet children were when they were told to harm those less fortunate than themselves. Howland soothed his concerns by telling him that such cruelty was no different than skinning a rabbit or cooking a frog.

“Killing those creatures serve a purpose, mother,” Jojen protested. He tried to reach out for his omega, but Howland’s glare kept him complacent.

“Does nothing I do serve my children?”

Howland repeated his request. With a kiss against his ear, he told Bran to make it “quick, painless, like the wilting of a dandelion so dear to the eye but worthless to the earth that birthed it.” After some contemplation, the boy concentrated on the creature before him. Like wavering wisterias, the limbs of the centipede fell off one by one. The bug became docile, as if drunk on the milk of the poppy. It was alive in the barest sense, for it no longer squirmed with anticipation.

“Without its tools, what does it resemble?” Howland asked. Bran stared. The beast, black and barren, was helpless under Bran’s spiritual touch.

“Like a worm.”

Howland smiled at his perception. “I do like worms. They are such valuable commodities. We could use more worms on this earth.”

Bran agreed. The centipede’s body was coated with the green and silver and lightened to a charming shade of pink and peach. Along with its legs, the pincers that were once so vicious were snapped off to be replaced by an unseen orifice. The scales of its shell were replaced with tender and slippery flesh. It shrunk. Once so lively, the creature was sluggish and slow.

Bran dropped the creature on the floor. Howland picked it up and placed it inside Bran’s hand. The worm was sat with the leisure of a king. “What a stunning child you are,” Howland praised.

Bran awestruck. “I did that?”

“Yes,” Howland revealed. “And you could do more. More spells and enchantments and even potions. More feats than you could ever dream of.”

Bran could not believe. He could be the greatest knight that ever lived! He could become the next Brynden Rivers, the legendary “Lord Bloodraven” if what Lord Reed claimed was true.

“And it would be easy for me and my people to teach you. You are such a marvelous student, Bran. Your brilliance will outshine the stars.”

Jojen, who was once so angry with his mother, became enlightened by the path they were traveling. “You were spectacular, Bran,” he seconded. He tried not to be embarrassed by his own fickleness. His mother would surely tease him for his behavior tonight. 

Bran blushed from the praise. “Thank you, Lord Reed.”

“I think you should live in the Neck with us.”

Bran choked. “ _What?_ ”

“Soon, you will reach the age of fostering. There is no other place more true to the old gods than the lands of which the hammer of the waters struck. There is no better location to guide you throughout your destiny. You cannot tell me that your place is here, when your magic calls for you in the earth and skies.”

The words rung true, for Bran had felt more at home climbing the walls of Winterfell than within them, trapped like a bird in a cage. He wanted to touch the trees. He needed to feel the clouds. “B-but…My family, Lord Reed. My—”

“Your father was fostered by the House of Arryn for most of his young adulthood. He tells me nothing of happy stories and the wondrous brotherhood he shared with the king”—the vile, brute of a man—“Do you not want to share a union with us? Jojen would surely rip out his own heart out if it meant keeping yours for safe keeping. We will not mistreat you. I would care for you as if you were my own.”

Bran did not doubt Lord Reed’s promise. The man already loved him and his siblings as if they were diamonds in the sky. The Stark sat in turmoil for the longest time. Howland assuaged his fears by reminding him there was still time to make a decision.

“It will be another few years before a choice needs to be made. I just want to extend the invitation. You are always welcomed in our home, my darling.” He removed Bran out of his arms and into his son’s receiving embrace. “I will see the two of you at dinner. Enjoy your play.”

Howland resolved that he would no longer push his agenda until he could receive confirmation from his lover and his lover’s wife. Even if Bran agreed to leave his home, there was no guarantee his parents would submit to such a request. Ned was adamant about keeping his children close to home. While the Stark patriarch enjoyed his time as a ward, he was reluctant to part with own children. After losing his own family in such a tragic manner, he counted his time with his children as if they were on loan.

During his stride down the halls, he found himself in the midst of walking past Lady Stark. They did not interact with each other if they could help it; they choose instead to ignore each other’s presence unless other dignities were expected of each other. Since they were alone in the halls, they would continue walking without so much as a nod of recognition. Tonight, Howland had other plans.

“Lady Stark, just the woman I was looking for. How are you this evening?” Howland’s lie was easy and effortless. He sounded like a thief.

“Very well, Lord Reed. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Such a lady she was; Howland could taste her seething and his tongue sought to snarl at her insolence. “I wanted to congratulate you on arranging such a successful presentation. Robb was quite fruitful during the hunt. He was the talk of the hunting party. You must be proud to bear such a child.”

“Thank you, but this ceremony is for _your_ son. Should you not be congratulating him? I heard he was well received.”

Howland avoided baring his teeth. “Permission to speak freely, my lady? I understand that my words often convey meanings unintended by your ears.”

“You may speak however you wish. The wisdom of a mother is always welcomed by the gods' ears.”

“I am grateful your gods are so lenient,” Howland mocked. “But on the matter of the ceremony, I believe we should drop the pretense. We know that their purpose was not to court my son or your ward, but to introduce themselves as your potential successor. An aspiration, I am sure, you are empathetic to.”

To her credit, Catelyn displayed no reaction towards the accusation. “Regardless of their purpose, you must be happy of the outcome. Few natural born omegas, however noble, receive a presentation ceremony. One of this magnitude is unheard of. I would not be surprised to hear if he receives a marriage proposal in the following months or so.”

“Yes, I am most thankful for your assistance. I heard you took special care in settling the arrangements.” Howland would not deny that Catelyn could handle herself in the financial realm. She was not the wastrel southern ladies were often depicted as. “But I fear it was for naught. Jon has taken no particular liking to his selection, Lady Stark.”

Catelyn smiled, which alarmed Howland who had never known the woman to so much as twitch her lips in his presence. “I am not so sure about that. He seems fond of the Manderly heiress. While just today, I overheard them whispering in that language of yours. They make a beautiful couple."

It took a lot of strength not to grimace in Catelyn’s presence. He kept his cool and instead wondered about the watching. “You pay a great deal of attention towards my son. Forgive my surprise; for the past few years, you’ve all but consider him a shadow for his older brother.”

Catelyn took a moment to respond. She may not be clever, but she was smart. She would not charge into a battle of wits without sufficient equipment. “As Lord Stark’s wife, his happiness is my pleasure. If my husband desires the best for his son, should I not offer my support? Jon could not do any better than Lady Wynafryd.”

Oh, but he could, thought Howland. “That’s an argument for another time. One I will be discussing with your _husband_.”

There was plenty from that statement to unnerve Catelyn. The suggestion of a better match for Jon or the way Howland said the word ‘husband’—as if he was making a _joke_.

“Since we are on the topic of sons and their well being, I wanted to discuss Bran.”

Catelyn furrowed her brows. “What about Bran?”

The subject was not a comfortable one. Howland did not enjoy asking this woman for favors; he never wanted to hand her the power of holding his desires—not since that dreadful night fifteen years ago. Yet, there was no way to avoid it. Ned already forced one mother to be separated from his child, he would not do so again. He needed Catelyn’s support.

“For the past few years, I’ve kept a close eye to Bran’s growth. He is a magnificent child and will only exceed expectations. Your devotion to his care is praiseworthy.”

“Thank you."

“He reminds me of my Jon—which is why I recommend he explore his horizons. From one mother to another, I believe he would greatly benefit from the guidance of the Neck as Jon has of Winterfell.”

“You…wish to foster him?” Catelyn pronounced the suggestion as if she was amused. Her smugness was infuriating. Howland refused to answer her arrogance with his bitter retorts. He needed her complacent, not defensive.

“Not now, of course. But perhaps when he is older, nine or ten, as Ned was when he left Winterfell.”

“I see.”

Before he could announce another piece of evidence, Catelyn stunned him with her answer.

“I am not oppose to the suggestion.”

“You…are not?” Now it was Howland’s turn to be suspicious.

“No,” Catelyn repeated. “ _But_ I am not eager to part with my son, either.”

Howland straightened his back to get a good look at the woman before him. He should have suspected the fish amongst wolves was a barracuda. Howland’s gracious facade disappeared and left behind the Lord of the Neck.

“What can I do for you, Lady Stark?”

Catelyn hummed, as if contemplating her request. Howland knew her demands were settled. “I am not unwilling to compromise. But the thought of sending my son to the Neck is frightening. I have never parted with any of my children for long and I know from your reaction, there is no greater pain on this earth.”

“But there are rewards to seeing your child grow, especially under wisdom you cannot provide yourself.”  

“So I’ve heard,” Catelyn agreed. “Which is why I want all of my children to experience what the world has to offer. There is only so much the North can provide.”

Howland smirked. This time, his amusement was genuine. “And I suppose you’ve developed a method for further education. A method, perhaps, Lord Stark may not approve of.”

Catelyn pursed her lips. “There is a tourney happening in the Reach. Robb has become quite skilled with a lance. I spoke to him about the matter and he has expressed his desire to participate,” she explained.

Howland could not control his laughter. When he spoke, it was beyond mocking. “And, I suppose this tourney is one that crowns a queen of love and beauty? I heard they’ve continued the practice after all these years.”

“It is.”

“Then, you can understand why Ned refuses to have any part in it.” Howland amusement dissipated to annoyance. “He refuses to engage in southern entertainments—especially ones that imitate the humors that cost him his family.”

“Fifteen years have passed and Lyanna still refuses to rise from the grave. This blockade against Southern forces has done us no favors. If winter is coming, we need the alliances.” She sighed. “Besides, you are one of the North’s renowned loyalists. A favorable performance from Robb during this tourney will have every southern lord and lady reevaluating what they thought they knew of these lands.”

Howland wanted to shake his head and admonish the woman, but he knew her words had some merit. He could not resist jabbing her with her conceit. “Tourneys often serve as mating grounds for ladies awaiting favor from single lords. I met your husband and mine at a tourney. As did you. I am sure there will be plenty of omegas for Robb to take his pick.”

“I would not oppose a southern good daughter," Catelyn retorted. No shame infiltrated her words.

Howland’s contempt was hidden by his tranquil expression. “Behold, another contender for the game of thrones. You surprise me, Lady Stark.”

“Do I?” Catelyn was not amused.

“I thought you were this naïve lady, trapped in her web of undoing. And how could I not? You wedded a lord who will never love you. Have children who will defy and leave you. Your power will never be your own.”

“And yet here I am,” Catelyn finished. “Wearing the name of the man you loved. Being called mother by his children.”

“His child also calls me mother,” Howland reminded with a glint of fury in his eyes. “In case you are inclined to forget.”

“I could never forget!” she snapped. Recognizing her error, she pulled back her rage and resumed her composure. She took a breath for her sanity. “Regardless of our differences, we share the love that all mothers have for their children. We will do what is best for them in spite of what others think they know.”

Howland agreed. The acknowledge was painful for he had nothing but resentment for this woman. “I will speak to Ned on the matter of the tourney when you profess your acceptance of Bran’s fostering. I trust you will have time to converse with him before dinner.”

Catelyn stiffened. “We are to speak of the costs for the ceremony. I will bring it up.”

“I will return the favor tonight.”  

The deal was struck. Their parting was as stiff as their negotiations and had the added pretense of pleasantries.

***

Following the transaction, Catelyn spent her entire trip to the study reassuring herself of the benefits. If Howland managed to convince Ned, she would receive what she wanted. Her children would get a taste of the southern atmosphere and the south would have the opportunity to envy her offspring. If Howland failed, Catelyn would gain evidence that her husband’s love for his mistress was not infallible.  

The object of her dismay, however, was the added consequence of losing her son. Bran was unlike her other children. His predisposition towards nature was unsettling. He was restless and acted as if he were chained to the walls. He woke up in sweats because he believed his blankets to be suffocating him. He could never stand to be indoors for long. She feared for his life. If Howland could provide him solace, she had no choice but to accept his offer. Catelyn shook her head. Such a decision had yet to made.

There was still the possibility that Ned would deny Howland’s request for fostering—he loved their children so—but the chances were slim if Catelyn gave her approval. If she was any less of a woman, she would rescind her part of the deal once Howland granted her desire. Catelyn refused to indulge the dishonorable suggestion. She was many things, but an oath breaker she was not.

Catelyn caught Valon Poole’s eye the second she arrived. Lord Stark was running late—he sent a message to start without him. The notion made her proud. He may not love her, but he respected her enough to handle their fiscal concerns—a feat many ladies were not given despite their childhood training. They were halfway done measuring the rations when Valon realized he forgot the papers regarding the wine exports. He excused himself to retrieve them. He recommended Catelyn take a break.

Catelyn was reluctant to do so, if only because she did not want to be left alone with her thoughts.  

To relieve her concerns, she walked outside to take some fresh air. She never opened the windows and all the rooms she frequented had theirs boarded up. While she enjoyed the breeze from an already open source in the halls, she overheard the maids chatting in the other room. She was inclined to ignore them, but her curiosity was peaked when she overheard Lord Reed’s name joined with Lord Bolton’s. She glanced inside and saw one of Lord Bolton’s serving boys gossiping with her own.

“He is waiting for Lord Benjen to take the Black. He’s already proposed twice!”

“How shameless!” Gage’s son gasped. Turnip, Catelyn remembered vaguely.

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Bolton’s boy warned. “He’ll flay you alive.”

Another maid scoffed. “Flaying has been outlawed for years. Lord Stark saw to that.”  

“Well, he can’t watch all his men, can he? No one stops Lord Bolton from getting what he wants. If they did, he wouldn’t have that bastard of his. Now that one is a piece of work.” He checked to see if anyone was watching. Catelyn got out of sight. When the boy deemed the coast was clear, he returned to his story. “He raped Ramsay’s mother for not following the law of the lord's right. Who knows what he’ll do to Lord Reed if he continues to refuse him?”

“Lord Bolton is a monster,” Turnip announced. “Lord Reed would rather die than marry him. Besides, he is one of the greatest warriors who has ever lived. It is Lord Bolton who should be afraid.”

“You don’t know Lord Bolton.”

“And you don’t know Lord Reed,” the same serving girl from before pointed out. “He’s called the Witch of Winterfell for a reason.”

“Superstitions and woods witch lore,” the boy dismissed.

“They carry enough truth for men to fear him. He holds madness in the palm of his hand and delivers it to whoever he wishes. Look at Lady Stark. She’s suffered the brunt of it.”

For the longest time, Catelyn held her breath. Then, servant reminded them of a key fact. “Lord Bolton isn’t afraid of anything—not even Lord Reed.”

***

Theon was preparing for a bath when he heard his door creaked. He pretended not to notice his intruder as he slipped off his shirt. He paid no mind to the footsteps drawing closer to his unbutton trousers. When he was thrashed against his own bed, he played the part of an aghast virgin to theatrical perfection.

“Get off me, Ramsay!”

Ramsay was not listening when he sunk his teeth into Theon’s shoulder, causing the older boy to let out a high-pitch squeal. He grasped Theon’s cunt and squeezed. Theon, though older, was still smaller than the Bolton bastard and fit right inside his hand with little spillage. Ramsay’s hand washed itself in the dripping heat. Theon tried to gag himself on the sheets. Ramsay released his fangs and got up.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I want to hear you scream,” he hissed out, blood dripping down his face. He licked his lips. He grabbed onto Theon’s body and forced him on his back. Theon was trying to shake him off but Ramsay was stronger. He smashes their lips together so that Theon could get a good taste of himself.

Theon fought harder when he tasted the iron on his tongue. Their teeth clacked against each other; Theon bit Ramsay’s lip so the blood kept flowing; Ramsay shoved his fingers into Theon’s hole so he kept dripping; Theon wrapped his arms and legs around Ramsay so that he could get him closer, _deeper_. When they parted, Theon was moaning like foghorn. He kept humping against Ramsay’s fingers. Ramsay was losing his balance with each thrust. He was forced to remove his fingers to get on the bed.

Theon whimpered at the loss of intrusion. His eyes were blown and hazed, his mouth was open and drooling. He looked like a whore with his painted lips—the genuine kind who would do their work for free. Ramsay maneuvered himself for better balance. He was now kneeling on the bed, right above of Theon with his perfect, thin bow legs wrapped around his waist.

“More,” Theon moaned as he reached out for Ramsay. Ramsay was tempted to fulfill his request, but remembered where those hands had been. He was incensed to teach his omega a lesson.

Without warning, he gripped Theon’s throat and held him against the bed. Theon choked, spittle flew from his mouth and his pupils grew wide. “R-Ramsay—!”

“Did you have fun conversing with my brother, Theon?”

Theon tried to get those hands off him. He scratched and slapped, tossed and tumbled. “L-let g-go!” He started coughing.

“I asked you a question: did you enjoy my brother’s company?”

Theon knew the right answer. He knew it would involve swearing his devotion to this mad man and be rewarded in the most toe curling, fingernail ripping way.

“Y-yes…”

Ramsay’s eyes widened. His grip became tighter. Theon struggled for air but kept his defiance. “Yes!” He screamed. He started smirking, looking Ramsay right in the eye as he did so. “I-I f-fucking l-liked it. He—” Theon started hacking. Ramsay’s head was screaming at him to strangle the bitch but after one, final squeeze, he let go.

“You fucking slut!” He thought as he moved to slap the Greyjoy. Theon winced when the hand hit him. Ramsay moved to strike again but this time, Theon caught it. He grabbed the hand before the bastard could lose control and shoved the fingers deep into his mouth. He tried to swallow the fingers down and imagined Ramsay’s manhood raping his mouth.  

With each slow, agonizing ‘pop,’ sense was revived into Ramsay’s being. Theon tried not to smirk as he nipped the tips. Once they were drenched with his saliva, Theon pulled himself up. He tried to crawl onto Ramsay’s lap. The boy was suspicious and attempted to pull away but Theon swung his legs across his body.

“Domeric has his charm"—his title and his lands—"I liked learning about those things.” Theon smiled so prettily. “Maybe I should give him a chance to play with me…”

Theon began to grind on Ramsay’s hips. He could feel that hard cock trying to enter his pussy. He wanted it so badly. It was a shame he had to keep his maidenhood until his wedding day. If only Ramsay was the heir—he could have skipped his meal and be split on this prized stallion for hours.

Ramsay refused to coddle the conniving slut. Once at Theon’s mercy, Ramsay saw through the ruse. He felt humiliated having fallen for such an obvious trap by such a dumb omega. Ramsay could not let him get away with the insolence. He threw the boy against his bed. Theon whimpered. He tried to drag Ramsay back by the hem of his pants, desperate for another kiss. Ramsay ignored him. He rummaged through his dressers to what he knew was hiding. There was no way an omega as desperate and slovenly as Theon would go without a—.

“Well, what do we have here?”

Ramsay’s smile was terrifying. Theon cringed as he saw the device in Ramsay’s hand. It happened to be his largest tool, used for his worst heats. He tried to run away but Ramsay lunged on him. While he struggled, Ramsay shoved the imitation into his cunt without mercy. “Ah!” Theon screamed, his eyes teary and fearful.

“Let’s play a game, shall we?”

***

An hour later, Theon was wobbling to the bathing rooms, dressed in a thin robe for he could not be trusted to undress himself. The serving girls were asked to prepare his dining wears. He basked in the steam the second he arrived. Stumbling to the tub, he hesitantly entered one feet at a time, praying he did not slip. The hot water felt like heaven on his cunt, which was red and swollen from overuse. Ramsay did not bother with preparation; he wanted Theon damaged by dinnertime, when the Greyjoy was forced to return Domeric’s side in hopes of attaining the fated marriage proposal.

Rummaging through the soaps and perfumes, he found the salve kept in omega bathrooms for the sake ‘softening their skin’ when in truth, was used for more licentious purposes. Theon dipped the cream onto his cunt and winced. The sensation was soothing but he was sore; the pain was worse than any sparing session he had been through. Despite his sensitivity, he was getting used to the violation. Theon massaged his pussy more leisurely. He wanted to enjoy his bath.

While entranced by his own pleasure, he was not oblivious to the opening door. Ramsay’s presence made him cautious. He could not handle another one of their sessions and warned his intruder that he was too tired for more activity. “You have run me worn and ragged.” He leaned his head back against the tub. “You can wait until tomorrow to have me.”

“A generous offer, Lord Theon.”

Theon snapped his eyes open. The water overflowed as he twisted his body around to get a better look at the man. Domeric Bolton’s stare was intense—a hailstorm in the middle of a ten-year summer.

“Lord Domeric!” Theon cried out as he tried to cover himself up. His position allowed only obscenity so he sunk deeper beneath the perfumed water. “You should not be here.”

“You did not seem upset when I first arrived. Perhaps, you were expecting someone else?”

Chills ran down Theon’s spine. He narrowed his eyes and behaved as if he were victimized instead of accused. “Lord Domeric, this is improper. While I am fond of you, I must request that you leave immediately.”

Domeric’s expression altered by the slightest degree. He seemed angry—but Theon could not read anything beyond his detatched persona. Theon’s fear amplified when the elder boy drew near.  
“Are you fond of me, Lord Theon? As fond as you are of my brother?”

Theon stiffened. He refused to behave in an uncouth manner. He spent too much time on Domeric to lose him and there was no other suitable alternative. He became shy and hid himself further. “Lord Domeric, forgive me for being forward but no lord has caught my eye but you. I believe you are in bad humor.” He pretended to relax once more. “I met with Jon before my bath. We engaged in a bit of playfighting. I thought he was coming in for another joke.”   

Domeric’s mouth remained thin and straight. He reached over to touch Theon’s shoulder—Theon tried not to shiver. He touched Ramsay’s mark and ran his fingers over the deep incisions. “He is quite vicious. There are marks all over you.”

“He is,” Theon agreed. He tried to push the Bolton’s departure along. He ignored the looming foreshadowing. “Lord Domeric—”

Domeric cradled Theon’s face. His fingers were cold. He touched Theon’s lips and called him beautiful. “I imagine our children would have your charms.” His hands remained on Theon, even when he relegated to his knees. “Shame that behind such lovely complexion lies a slut.”

Without warning, Domeric submerged the omega underwater.

Shocked forced Theon to gasp and the gravity of his mistake was exemplified when water—bitter, foul, contaminated water was stuffed into his throat and filled his lungs. He grasped onto the hand that held him but the man refused to budge. Theon fought desperately for breath. After a moment, and one that was not too soon, he was released.

“Are you a virgin?” Domeric asked when Theon resurfaced.

Theon tried to cough up the residual liquid. Domeric was not satisfied with the hesitation and forced Theon under water again. Theon wondered, in the midst of death, why he was tangled between these two vicious men. But Ramsay was different from brother. He was hot. Ramsay was going to destroy him, break him down, make him crave him until he was crying and dripping with cum. He was going to be ruin for all men. He was going to fill him up with children and force Theon to ride his cock while his stomach was swollen with alphas—Theon found himself losing consciousness.

_He wanted to give Ramsay so many alphas._

At long last, he was released. Domeric asked the same question. “Are you a virgin?”

Theon coughed again. Domeric was about to repeat the motion for a third time when Theon clung to sides of the tub.

“Yes!” Theon sobbed. “Yes! I am still a virgin!” He wondered what would happen if he was not one, but somewhere in his mind, he knew the answer. Domeric was going to kill him. He was different from Ramsay. Ramsay wanted to hurt him. He wanted Theon to beg. Domeric would take what he wanted from Theon—or else dispose of him when he became a liability.  

Domeric was satisfied. He released Theon—drenched as a drowned cat.

“I will submit my proposal by the end of the ceremony,” he announced, much to Theon’s shock. “Following your acceptance—and you will accept—my father will send the dowry conditions to Pyke. By reputation, Lord Greyjoy is not a generous man but I trust he will not want to lose face but refusing to pay. A few ships should be no hardship on his part. Lord Stark will also offer his assistance in the matter. We will not be demanding a number outside of reason—you are merely his ward, after all.”

Theon hacked up more water. He glared—the pretenses fell apart the second the Bolton heir tried to kill him. Domeric preferred the docile kitten. To rectify his attitude, Domeric returned to Theon’s wet body and shoved his fingers inside Theon’s used cunt. He ignored the boy’s thrashing and observed the quality of his purchase. He was loose—a fact that made him doubt Theon’s earlier testament.

“Were you lying to me, Lord Theon?”

The violation forced tears into Theon’s eyes. He felt so sore.“No!” He protested vehementally. “I have toys!” he explained. “I use them for my heats! No cock has ever entered me!”

“So not even my brother has had a taste? It is not like him to practice self-control.” Domeric’s eyes narrowed. “Especially with a creature who is willing.”

“No, I am a virgin! I swear!”

Domeric was tempted to shove his whole fist in to punish Theon, regardless. He restrained himself. “Good—I hope you refrain from such practices in the future. We will have our ceremony as soon as possible. I want you tight when I bed you.”

Theon whimpered. He nearly screamed when Domeric released his hand. The boy sunk so low, Domeric wondered if he planned to drown himself—he did have the mentality of mad men with his family’s history and such.

An archaic practice, Domeric thought.

Before he left, Domeric performed the courtesy of kissing Theon’s hand. He was still a noble omega after all—propriety was expected of the two of them. He trusedt there would be no further problems and the last of the remaining would be removed once he sent Ramsay away for good.

***

The dinner was starting when Benjen met with the Night Watch recruiter. He was grateful to see a familiar face beyond the crowds of unknown lords and ladies—being around nobility made him feel like an outsider despite his upbringing. Yoren chuckled when he saw the Stark who greeted him. They embraced like brothers.

When Benjen noticed his lack of companionship, he asked if Yoren would like to join him for a walk. Lord Stark was overwhelmed with other duties. “Tonight was the second night of Jon’s presentation ceremony,” he informed.

Yoren raised an eyebrow. “I see. Is it alright for me to be here? Hate to interrupt a celebration with a pander for rapists.”

Benjen chuckled. “The men of the Night’s Watch are always welcomed.” He took Yoren to the stables where they were alone—saved for the hay and horses. There, he demanded a kiss from the older man. Benjen grinned through the kiss from the familiar taste of sourleaf—bitter and addictive. Yoren did not resist and instead removed his own shirt with help from Benjen’s wanton touch. The Stark was desperate for scarred skin and rough hands. His height allowed him to push Yoren’s head upwards to get a hold of that fine neck. Benjen, like any alpha, was provoked to mark it. Yoren was not one to offer submissiveness—Stark or not.

“Your preferences haven’t changed,” he growled as he undid his pants. Benjen followed suit.

“Why would they?” He asked. He knew the answer well. Most men who took the Black resorted to wayward practices out of frustration. There were few like Benjen who actively sought a knot or hard form.

Yoren did not answer. He told Benjen he was not in the mood to be knotted. Benjen complied without question. He bent down and offered his bare region for Yoren to do as he pleased. Without lubrication of any sort, Yoren attacked the opening with minimal preparation. He knew Benjen preferred the burn from their few nights together—he was a favorite amongst the men because of this. Men of the Night’s Watch fucked the way all men who lived on an hourglass did: ruthless and senseless—as if they were on constant ruts. When he was finished getting wrung dry, his knot settled against Benjen’s prostate. The man did not whimper or squeal like omegas did—his moans were harsh; he delivered masculine grunts. After Yoren came, he pulled out immediately. Benjen liked to clench around a cock after receiving their cum. It made it impossible to leave afterward.

Yoren grabbed his pants to take out some sourleaf and chew. He did not bother to get dress right away. Benjen was more relaxed than he had been all week. He laid there and wondered about the last time he was fucked so brazenly.

“I lost my maidenhood here.”

Yoren chuckled. “You have no maidenhood to give.”

“Because the value of innocence is only placed on omegas—a sex alphas deemed property over person?”

Yoren said nothing.

“I was the Stark of Winterfell. He was a recruiter; a wandering crow like yourself.”

Yoren calculated Benjen’s age to the men in service at the time. It was before his shoulder injury. “Might have been Yohn or Cleyton.”

“Either way, I did not see him again. He must have died sometime after my wedding.”

That happened.

“He initiated my rut. Such an act was unheard of at the time—mostly because the perpetrators were disposed of. Maester Luwin took good care to hide the scandal and he never breathed a word of it—not even to my brother. I snuck out to see him before he left. He fucked me in this barn and told me if I ever visited the Night’s Watch, he’d do it again and again.”

Yoren chuckled. “Don’t tell that’s the only reason you wanted to join.”

“Not the only reason,” Benjen denied. “But I did not want my life to be wasted on counting coins and mediating disputes between the mill man and the tailor. I wanted to be a part of a brotherhood.”  

Yoren sighed. He got dressed. “You are always welcomed with us.”

“I know,” Benjen told him. “I look forward for the years to come.”

“Are you sure about joining? You may never see your children again. May never hold another in anything but the comfort that tomorrow may not be your last day.”

Benjen said he was sure.

The world beyond the wall is not ready for men like him.

***

When they finished with their trysts, Benjen joined his wife in the dining hall with Yoren in toll. He reintroduced the recruiter to Howland, who returned his nod with a hug. “It is good to see you again. I must ask, how are the men I’ve sent you?”

Yoren chuckled. “They are not the worst lot I’ve seen. A bit empty headed, though that’s fine. Don’t need too much brains for what we’re doing—good with scavenging, I’ll give them that.”

Howland smiled, though there was an edge to the suggestion. Benjen knew the empty-headedness was not a trait they were born with. Howland’s people had their ways of dealing with traitors—he was sure the Marsh fellow would be regretting his espionage for years to come, shoveling snow and manure up at Castle Black.

After meeting Howland, Yoren set off to greet Lord Stark. He was respectful, as all low-born men were trained to be in front of their social superiors, but there was no meekness about his regard. Lord Stark returned the respect.

“I feel as if I have not seen you in ages,” Howland moaned. He leaned on his husband’s shoulder, finding comfort in the alpha’s scent. The scent was same of which lingered on his beautiful chidren and resembled the man he loved so. 

Benjen led him to their seating. He allowed Howland to curl up under his arm. The rest of the guests watched from the corner of their eyes—there were hundreds of topics to gossip about and their affection was a thin layer of news. He supposed the lords and ladies expected them to be stoic—their marriage was a farce, an act of mercy. Benjen was counting down the minutes in which he could leave his children with honor.

Benjen wondered how so many people could miss how much he loved his wife. “I will miss you,” he confessed to Howland.

Howland hummed. “You will live.” He casted an eye on the chatting crow. “Lyanna was the heart of the North. Ned was the head. Brandon was the soul. And you, you were the body that kept everything together. You were the shoulders that supported the head. The ribs that secured the heart. And the meat that provided value to the soul.”

Such a declaration made him wonder if he should stay, but Howland read his thoughts and refused his doubt. “But the heart has been replaced and found a soul to accompany its rule. The head has settled on earth and needs no anchor for the clouds. You will be missed and you will be adored. The time has come for you to achieve your destiny. You must be selfish, Benjen. I pray to the gods you act on your own accord.”  

“Will you be okay?” He casted an eye on Meera and Jojen. They took no notice of their parent’s discussion. “Will my children be fine, fatherless?”

Howland took his hand. “You are my friend and brother. I love you. Our children will know about your feats and the flush of pride will never become unfamiliar. They want you to be happy.”

Benjen brought his wife closer to him. He saw his brother watch them. There was a flash of jealousy in his eyes. He stifled it with reason. Benjen wanted to whip the courage into the head of Winterfell. His brother should be marching past the tables, ripping his lover away from his brother’s arms and taking Howland to bed. Instead, he followed proper protocol. He mingled with his guests and tried to keep a close eye on Howland.

Benjen looked down and saw Howland’s gaze redirected towards his brother. He could have laughed. They were like children; when one looked forward, the other looked away. He was reminded of their first meeting. The two were immersed with each other from the start but shyness and insecurity—all on Ned’s part—kept them separated.

Despite their interruption, Benjen was confident that this was not the end for them. Jon would not become their finale. He was the North’s future, as Howland enjoyed claiming with madness in his eyes. Benjen knew better than to doubt the bond of soulmates.

The youngest Stark moved on to his two children. Jojen was cradling Bran; his grin was larger and his expression brighter. He was a sullen child most of the time—much like his father and brother. Benjen pitied the curse he planted on his own son, but Bran did not seem to mind. He accepted Jojen’s affections and quirks as endearments. His daughter was giggling with Wylla Manderly. He did not meet the girl personally but heard from rumors that she was a wild child—an ideal match for his straightlaced alpha. Meera would have her hands full with her.

His brother's ward was keeping to himself. He sat beside the Bolton boy with the saddest smile he'd seen since Jon uttered the word 'papa' and only Howland could hear. From afar, the Bolton bastard glared enviously. The last to catch his eyes were his two nephews—each engrossed with what the other had to say. He heard they were inseperable—Howland was a masterpiece. He surely played a part in this tragedy. Benjen sighed and drank his wine. He soothed himself with the assurance that when hell froze over, he would not be present for the chill.

But—

He casted a glance towards the boys in question. Jon kissed Robb on the cheek and whispered something in his ear. Robb laughed. Benjen wondered if the joke was funny or if Robb would laugh at anything his lover said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ideally, I would like to finish this story in fifteen-eighteen chapters. Then, I’m going to focus on another fandom with the occasional request to the GoT fandom.
> 
> 2\. So Eddie Redmayne is my ideal Howland Reed. I made a college for him. [He is perfect.](https://twitter.com/CheshireSua/status/797963659808882693)
> 
> 3\. I am desperately trying to update on time and fulfill requests. There will be a Jojen/Bran oneshot coming up titled "Choke" and an original short story called the "Art of Making Dragons" some time this week. Both will contain copious amounts of porn. The latter will have a bit of bestiality. Yay!
> 
> 4\. Thank you all for reading. I am especially grateful to the people who review. I understand there are some people who read and bookmark this story who believe that the few seconds to write a review is worth more than the hours I spend writing. So though I do not always respond, I am happy to receive all my comments.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first six thousand words have no sex—just politics. I feel that is more of a warning than any explicit foreshadowing. Robb does go a little cray, though.

Lord Reed was dressing for dinner when he spotted the gold collar in his personal possessions. The present was wrapped in red cotton and the gleam from the metal showed through the cloth. Howland was wary of it; he carried an aversion to all objects cloaked in blood. Before he could discover its sender, someone knocked on his door. He haphazardly wrapped it before allowing his guest in.

“May I come in, Lord Reed?”

Howland smiled to himself. “You never need permission in my presence, my love.” He turned around to give his lover a languid, well-deserved kiss. Howland was grateful he did not have the time to put on his cloak. He relished in the lack of restrictions when he wrapped his arms around Ned’s neck and felt his lord’s arms around his torso. Ned lifted him on top of the cabinet. Various personal belongings fell to the floor, including the better left forgotten gift.  

Once they separated, Howland rested his forehead against Ned’s own. He bemoaned their futures. “Our days are limited. After tomorrow night, we shall have Jon and Jojen’s nameday and then you will be lost to me for another year.”

“I do not need the reminder.” He sunk his teeth into Howland’s neck and Howland shivered. “Being without you after having your scent on my skin is torture enough.”

Howland was rejoiced to hear the declaration. He remembered Lord Bolton’s warning and vowed to reap vengeance on the man who rooted doubt against his alpha. Howland caressed Ned’s face and smiled—perhaps a bit apologetically for his treason. “Perhaps if we prolonged your trips, it would give me time to remove the grimness from your face.” Howland giggled, amused by his own humor. “Though, I supposed I should be grateful you never smiled in our youth. If your lips were moved by the slightest skirt, the competition aroused would have been symptomatic to a tourney for the crown.”

Ned chuckled. “You think too highly of me. Brandon made sure to draw the moths with his torch. I was a single candle in a southern hall by comparison.”

“Brandon was a show horse with a temperament to match. You were a stallion readied and worn for battle. I made my decision very clear on which one I preferred to ride.”

Jowland’s wickedness never disappointed Ned’s esteem. He remembered that fifteen years ago, Howland choose him. Selected him out of the high lords and ladies and chose a second son without humor when he could have had the first. Ned was not the heir then; he was destined for the life of a minor holdfast like his mother’s father and carry a banner for his brother. There were worst choices but for someone of Howland’s talents, there were alphas, reckless in their youth, depraved by their age, intoxicated by lust, all of whom would have fell for his manipulations.

Ned was about to take him to bed when they were interrupted. A serving girl asked for permission to enter. Howland laughed at the frustration on his beloved’s face and kissed his frown tenderly. “Tonight,” he promised. Ned reluctantly released him. Howland got on his feet and turned to the door. “Come in,” he allowed. The servant entered and was alarmed to see Lord Stark’s presence.

“Milord,” she bowed. “Forgive the interruption.” She looked at the Lord of the Neck with meekness. “Lord Manderly requests an audience with Lord Reed.”

“Is it a business matter or a personal conversation?” Howland asked. He was already redoing his robe and combing his fingers through his hair to assume a respectable appearance.

“Business,” Wyman called from behind the door. “A small matter in all honesty but men of my age need to take advantage of our rare moments of lunacy.” He opened the entrance so that his large form would no longer hide behind the frame—a notion quite piteously in hindsight. He lingered there but they could all tell he was itching to sit. When he saw Lord Stark, he laughed and the sound shook the ground. “My lord, I expected to see you later tonight! I apologize for interrupting your _intimate_ moment but there are some private matters to discuss with Lord Reed.” He winked at his liege lord. “Do not fret, my dear boy! If I remember anything about my wife, it’s that delayed gratification is best left in the hands of a crannogman. I am sure he will repay you tenfold.”

Ned coughed. Despite the insinuation of Lord Manderly’s presence, Lord Reed must admit that there was some amusement to watching his lover squirm. He took Ned's hand and whispered his goodbye. "I will see you later."   

Once they were alone, Lord Manderly kissed Lord Reed with great paternal affection, a sensation Howland was unused to. It had been years since his father died. Lord Manderly complimented Lord Reed’s dress—though expressed his disappointment at the open slit on his chest. “Forgive me for being an old man, but in my day, people treasured modesty.”

“You did not mind when your wife was inclined to her short skirts and sleeveless shirts,” Howland jested.  

Wyman laughed and it was as hearty as ever. Howland wondered how anyone could think this man weak when his energy was beyond that of a newly rutted alpha. He offered him a seat on his bed and watched the mattress sink. In return, Lord Manderly handed him a ransack of what he claimed to be the “finest Dornish wine” for the “most beautiful living lord.” Howland did not handle liquor well but trusted the Lord of the White Harbor enough to risk a glass. Together, they toasted a successful ceremony and beautiful progeny.

“I must say, my heart bleeds for a world that is not blessed with more of yours and Lord Stark’s children.”

Howland smiled into his wine. “We have made a beautiful child,” He took another sip. “But all our children are nothing to scoff at. I never thought I would give birth to an alpha, much less two. The fates are funny that way. I hope they have the good sense to give me pretty grandchildren to spoil.”

The elderly lord laughed. “My wife was of the same mindset. For nine months, she swore to everyone in the city that her womb was carrying an omega, giggled in her sweet, broken tongue—her language was poor back then—and everyone prepared the prettiest quilts and dresses and gems in preparation. Then, came my Wylis. I have never seen a city more disappointed at the birth of an alpha! A son no less!” Wyman chuckled. He shook his head; any recollection of his wife made his eyes wistful and his face light up with simultaneously joy and sorrow. Howland felt for him. He remembered the funeral. The city mourned for a week of their lovely lady who would sing and dance with the orphans on the streets, who educated their populace of the nature of rations and relegating duties to those who have no start in their lives. The ports were closed. The men and women were given days to cry. Wyman Manderly sat by his wife’s crypt for two days and when she would not rise, set on a solitary sail so that her body could return to the seas as foam. He came back a broken man but stayed satisfied that he gave his wife the end she deserved.

“Your wife was beloved,” Howland praised. As a gesture of comfort, he touched Wyman’s hand. “You Manderly men have the good fortune of fine and fierce spouses. I can see from your granddaughters that Wylis made a good selection as well.”

Wyman nodded. His jovial mood returned. “Sweet girl, she is, and utterly devoted to my son. My wife enjoyed her company. They became close confidents. Leona was the youngest of her siblings and had no experience with children—she practically begged for my wife’s assistance.” Wyman chuckled. “I must say, when Wylis declared his love for the girl, I was frightened that the past would repeat itself and I would be forced to take drastic measures.”

“Oh? How so?”

“My father was a cruel man.” Lord Manderly’s face became fearsome—an expression adorned whenever he met a being foolish enough to insult his family or harm his lands. The same look that predated blockade and sanctions, defiled deals and violent shipwrecks. “He beat me for the smallest infractions—if I took too much on my plate one evening or if my footing was off during swords training; for any reason, he wanted his hands on me. I accepted my fate. He had no other children. I was his heir. I knew he was stuck with me—I allowed the injustice with the faith that my title was within arm’s reach. I was content,” Wyman explained. “Until I met my wife and I understood what joy was; I longed to never let another take it away from me. For months, I courted her and she responded in kind. For every cruel word, she paid me back in a hundred praises and for every bruise, I received a thousand kisses. When her heat drew near, I made my intention to marry her.” Wyman laughed and the sound was manic. “He was livid. He thought my marrying a crannogman meant I was condemning our line with the blood of monsters.” The air grew cold. Wyman grimaced. “He threatened to kill her if I did not stop my _disgusting infatuation_ with her. He said things about her that I will not repeat but the kindest was that she was a creature and a devil.” He drank more and asked Howland to refill his cup. Howland complied but was hesitant to give him a glass more than half full. “She was not a noblewoman but your father made arrangements with the Citadel so that she could make the claim. It wasn’t enough, of course.” He smiled and there was something sinister about his grin that shook Howland. “I asked my friend, Rickard Stark—your lover’s father for assistance. He was not the lord then, but he pleaded on my behalf to his father and Lord Edwyle Stark gave his decree of protection. I was married the next day. My father did everything he could to get me to cast my wife aside, but she was strong. Her will could not be broken by the maliciousness of a loveless man. Things changed, however, when I caught her bleeding in our bed.”

Howland stared at the man before him. “Lord Manderly…”

“Blood from her bottom—the worst possible effect of tansy. By some miracle, Wylla and my Wylis, still but a bean in her stomach, survived. But the damage had been done. What sort of husband was I, to let my wife and child live under a tyrant’s hatred?”

He would not be the man Howland believed him to be and before the story was finished, Howland knew the ending.

“He died a deserving death.” Wyman drank the last of his wine. “Men like us, Lord Reed, we have a duty to our loved ones. We see the world as it is, not as it is sold to us by the bards and the historians—we seek to rectify the injustice before the ones we cherish can become aware of them.”

Howland stared down into his wine and saw his reflection was clearer than the crystal in his vanity. “Why have you come here, Lord Manderly?”

Wyman steadied himself so that he was leaning forward. “More than ever, the North needs solidarity while we prepare for another southern invasion—both of the literal and figurative sort. When I left for Winterfell, my intention was to share a line with you and another with the Starks. Ambitious of me, I admit, but the former was what my wife would have wanted. She loved your father; he was a brother to her. From the day you were born, she decided that our blood would share a child. The child of kings. I sent my granddaughter here to seduce your son—had I known his heart was taken, I would have had her refocused her attentions elsewhere and given my youngest more initiative.”

Howland listened without response though his heart pounded throughout their conversation. He would give no cause to the suspicion, but if his plans took fruit, he would need an ally of the strongest sort to ensure obedience. “Your insinuation is crude,” Howland pointed out. “But if it were true, where would your alliances lie?”

Lord Manderly reminded Howland that they have sided with blasphemers before. “During the Dance of Dragons, House Manderly delivered a legion of warriors to Rhaenys Tagaryean’s aid and supported her rule during the Great Council—we accepted her son and the sons and daughters of many Tagaryeans despite their incestuous natures. After all, we are all of the same blood once our bodies are stripped of their perfumes and armors.”

“The Tagaryeans had dragons—people allowed a great many vices when such allies creep within the shadow of kings. They were also mad men.”

“Because they did not follow the law of nature—you’ve heard of the techniques they’ve used to arouse a heat between incompatible pairs. Our bodies are drawn to mates who will produce the most viable progeny—to force fertility is an act against the gods, both the new and the old. The Targaryeans ingested poisons and metals and false desires into their being to ensure the ‘purest bloodline’ and ended up convoluting their minds with madness. If what I see is true, then we shall have no such problems in your line.”

Howland could not control his relief. He suspected the same, of course, but hearing it from another was the justification he needed to continue his plans. The Targaryeans are dead for their crimes against nature—their line poisoned by their own conceit.

“How many people have noticed—if what you’re saying is true?”

Lord Manderly did hesitate. “My granddaughter suspects—she has not said a word to me but she is my successor in every way.”

“And of the other houses?”

Lord Manderly paused before giving his evaluation. “Lady Dustin has been watching. I doubt she suspects the worst but while her husband’s family are loyalists, she is not. The North will not trust her words but if what I am saying is true—” He sent Howland a sly glance. “Then, if she were to make an accusation today and be denied, when a revelation is made in the future, the North will levy in her favor. It does not help, Lord Reed, that she holds thorough ties with another family who bares the Starks no love.”

Howland was quite aware. “Her sister was Lord Bolton’s late wife.”

“And the Boltons loathe the Starks.”

Howland closed his eyes. He knew Lord Bolton had motives beyond deranged lust and power grabbing when he made his proposals. “Lord Bolton has expressed his desire to marry me after my husband takes the black.”

“He wants a hostage.”

“That seems to be the case.” Howland sighed and got up from where he sat. He thought about his dreams and those of his youngest son. “But we cannot afford to lose this opportunity. The tides are changing in the North’s favor.”

Lord Manderly agreed. “There is civil unrest within the South. King Baratheon is draining Westeros of its integrity and gold. He loses supporters every day—a number which will drop upon the death of his Hand. The Lord of the Vale is old, after all. His lands suffer from his lack of presence and his son is an invalid.”

Served him right, thought Howland. That man destroyed the chance for Howland’s son to have a father and now he shall never have the child he desired. Justice was divine.

Lord Manderly continued. “Lord Tully has crabs in his stomach. His son is an emotional fool—prone to outbursts and thirsts for recognition he cannot get on his own merit. They have civil unrest in their own lands.”

“The Freys,” Howland pointed out knowingly. He closed the cap of the ransack for later. “That leaves the Reach, Casterly Rock, the Iron Islands, and Dorne. The islands are a nonissue, but I heard that Theon's sister, the heiress; she loves her brother. His father may not give a damn but he will not live forever."

"If we are speaking about the love of brothers, I assume Lord Baratheon will side with the king if war were to break out.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Howland remembered the look on the boy’s face when Lord Stark rescued them and the utter distaste he had when he heard that the Targaryeans were slaughtered. The boy was fickle and callous, but he shared no great love for his elder brother. “And I was not aware we were talking about war. I was speaking of winter and potential alliances when it comes. Is that not what we were talking about?”

Lord Manderly was amused. “Yes, my apologies. Winter is a war and we must prepare for the worst. But speaking of which, if the riverlands and the vale are in no position to bring us their fruitfulness, then why should we not aim for the best. The Reach is unspoken for and their exuberance is admired throughout the land.”

“You would know, would you not?” In spite of his mocking, Howland agreed. “I have heard stories about the Tyrells—good things. They treasure family but they are ambitious. They want more than what they have and they want others not to have more.”

“They are not the only ones. But compared to the Lannisters, I find them preferable,” Lord Manderly admitted. “The Lannisters rule the kingdom, but they rule it through gold. Speaking from a man who shares a similar trade, gold is a luxury and luxuries hold no sway when men starve. They have no other commerce but the trade of power.”

“And power is cheap these days,” Howland wondered how long they’ve been speaking on the matter. He checked the windows and knew their time was coming to an end.

“Fortunately for us, the Lannisters have made a lot of enemies. Dorne—.”

Howland smiled at the obvious fact. “I have dealt with Dornishmen before. They are not unlike the Neck in some ways—though they are bit more gaudy than I would prefer.” He thought of their gouted prince and his snake of a brother—a man who once looked upon Howland with fascination and misery when he returned his sister’s body to him—unarmed and without fear. “We can use them.”

“For the winter.”

Howland stared for the longest moment. “Yes, _for the winter_.” He got up and threw on his cloak. “Let us have a break from such dire conversations. We should eat and be merry. As a whole, the North rarely joins together in celebration.”

Lord Manderly agreed that he should treasure the moments he has with his son. “It is our duty to pave the roads for their success but—” He cast a glance to the oncoming body of curls. “They should have the sense to draw their own maps. Does your son have what it takes to do what must be done?”

Howland smirked. He asked Lord Manderly to leave ahead of him for decency’s sake. “And Lord Manderly? With all due respect, my son is my son and he is the first among equals. He will not draw the map. He is the destination.”  

***

Jon was unamused at the sight of his mother walking out his bedroom with the Lord of White Harbor. Though he did not suspect his mother to be unfaithful—especially not with a man like Lord Manderly. He quickened his steps until he was side by side with his mother.

“Why was Lord Manderly in your bedchambers?”

Howland turned to him, amused, before looking forward. He did not hasten his steps but remained composed as a willow swaying in a breeze. “We were discussing business.”

“Because most business conversations are held in the privacy of one’s own bedroom—shared over the enjoyment of wine?” Jon glared. “I can see the red on your lips and the smell the fertilization on your breath.”  

“Some companies are best held in the presence of wine,” Howland answered. “And it was only a single cup.” He was being purposefully vague and that frustrated Jon, who knew nothing of his mother’s schemes. As a child, he did not mind playing dress-up in the veil of ignorance but as an adult, the divorce from innocence was now a liability. He was tired of remaining in the dark. Jon moved in front of his mother.

“You cannot handle your liquor—not even ale. That is why father and uncle demand to be by your side when you drink.”

Howland frowned. He wondered when all his children became so disobedient with him. “Your father was aware we were alone. He approved of it, if you must know.”

“But he was not there; he did not hear you speak about me and this place and all your plans that my siblings and I have no say in.”

“He was not there because there was no need for him to be. Lord Manderly is like an uncle to me. He has been so kind to our people despite the passing of his wife and carries no obligation to our survival but aids regardless.” Howland shuffled his cloak. “You should get acquainted with him, considering you have no intentions of joining his family.”

Jon was taken back. “Mother, that is not fair! You know why I cannot entertain his granddaughter’s advances.”

Howland stopped. He turned to his son. “I do, but regardless, the North is changing right now and we must stay together, both as a country and as a family. In the last fifteen years, treachery has forced the changing of crowns and altered the political landscape of Westeros. We are powerless if we are not together.”

Jon understood that. He wanted his mother to know he understood it. “I am ready. _Robb_ —” Jon’s heart clenched when the name was uttered. “He will never be allowed to marry me. Not even if father approved of our union, the South will never decree our marriage valid and our men may turn from us unless we can prove ourselves worthy of rule.”

“More than Robb,” Howland reminded, “Bastards cannot ascent to power under the rule of a king who scatters his own as if they were shit in sewers.” He sighed. "In the Reach, there is a girl with the name Flowers. Her father’s wife keeps her as a servant and allows her trueborn daughters to whip her when they are displeased by her image. In the westerlands, I’ve heard of a boy who, on his first rut, was bound and sent to the Wall so that he could remain out of sight from his trueborn brother.” His kissed Jon’s forehead. “Everything I have done I did for love.”

Jon believed him. But he was not a mannequin for a dressmaker nor was he a doll for a puppeteer; his destiny needed to be in his control and not carried on the good intentions of his mother. “Mother, these are precarious times. The smallest secret kept from our allies could lead to our ruin.” He tried to control his tone; he wanted to appear diplomatic. “I will not lose Robb for a mistake that could have been rectified had I been more aware.”

For the longest time, Howland remained silent. Finally, he touched Jon’s cheek and sighed as if he was told that winter had come. He looked forlorn. “Return to your lover, Jon. Allow me the peace of enjoying what was once a babe in my womb.”

“Mother!” Jon felt exasperated by the sentimentality. He was about to protest when Howland interrupted him.

“Tomorrow, the game begins. The North knows about you and soon, news will travel south and you will catch the king’s attention, just Lyanna did years before.”  

 _Which king?_   Jon had the sense not to ask. With great severity, he wondered, “How do I win in a game I’ve never played?”

Howland chuckled. He returned to his stride before answering. “In the game of _cyvasse_ , the dragon is the most powerful piece on the board, but the truth remains that whoever kills the king is deemed the winner. We use our allies and their strengths and we use our enemies’ weaknesses to our advantage.”

“And what if they have none? Or ours pale in comparison?”

“Then, we cheat.” Howland replied without hesitance or apology. “Love and honor will not always mingle in the same crowd and one day you will realize that having both is not an option.”

Jon paused. “Do you want to be king, mother?” Jon was raised upon the legends and histories. The Marsh King, the Kings of Winter, the Kings of the Mountains and Moon, all children’s lore for when they could not sleep. To his education, they were as vital as math.

“No,” Howland answered. “I want your father.”

***

When they arrived to the dining hall, his mother left his side to hug his uncle with the affection shared between fond spouses and greeted a man dressed in black that Jon vaguely recognized as a crow. Jon, on the other, was joined by Robb. The older boy was quick to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him aside so that they may be seated. They drank their wine with more eagerness than typically allowed. They spoke to each other using sweet words and pet names and made promises of the forbidden sort.

Jon would have enjoyed the flattery more if his earlier conversation did not linger in his mind. He was still thinking about the advice as the night went on and the liquor poured more feverously.

Tired of being left alone with his concerns, he leaned over to invite his older brother to join him on the floor. He was hardly a dancer, but movement was supposedly the cure for a volatile mind. His brother was surprised—he laughed off the suggestion only to be pulled in against his will. The other guest were too intoxicated to care, or perhaps their affection amused them. Jon knew the steps enough to put on a bit of a show. He was forced to take lessons by his father and after successfully making his argument against the activity, was forced into them again in an attempt to get Arya to dance.  

Robb was laughing, having drunk a good share more than his little brother. His hands traveled everywhere. The dance was a southern import—and required little touching beyond the limbs. Robb sought to push the boundaries by slipping his hands pass his brother’s wrists to grab his waist and touched his thighs when they were supposed to circle each other. Jon heard cheering but all he saw was Robb’s overt lustfulness. Like most boys, Robb found his dance lessons to be absolute misery. Unlike most boys—their father included—Robb was good at it, as he excelled in all his lessons.

When they were finished with their performance, Robb pulled Jon in until his back was touching Robb’s chest. The Stark heir kissed his brother’s shoulder, then his neck, and was about to move onto his face when Jon pulled away. The Snow child gave Robb a warning look but the older responded with a wild grin. To Jon’s surprise, Robb pulled him into an embrace and made an obvious show of squeezing his ass in front of all their guests.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered. Tempting fate was a game to him and he ran Jon’s blood cold when his grape-flavored tongue licked the shell of his ear. Jon failed to push him away, though he desperately tried to. The men, intoxicated by their celebration, did not fail to cheer on their intimacy. They could not read between the lines—could not see Robb’s ill-fated attractions as anything more than foolishness done during a drunken stupor. Alphas blinded by ale and wine did such things. They saw a pretty omega and all they could think about was sticking their cocks inside, fucking them until they were bloated with cum and child.

When he was finally released, Jon could not get away far enough. Robb was pulled away by several alphas, all of them giving him their stamp of approving for his ‘advances.’ They thought he was joking and would mock him the tomorrow morning for assaulting his little brother. Jon retreated to his table. His aversion made more men laugh—they thought he was shy, _embarrassed_ of all things. He was both grateful and horrified by the callous assumption. He tried to catch his breath but before he could sit, he was given another goblet.

He was about to refuse until a voice clarified that the content was water. “You must be thirsty after that performance,” Lady Wynafryd assumed. “I was watching readily.”

Jon hesitantly took the cup. He assured himself that no one would be foolish enough to drug him in front of so many people. Wynafryd smiled and offered him a seat beside her. She told him that the dance was beautiful. “I would have, however, enjoyed a routine more reminiscent of something native to our shared history. I have never been to the Neck, but I heard that their practices, their dances and rituals, are raw and without restraint.”

Jon grimaced. He was keeping an eye on Robb. The boy remained oblivious to his lover’s outrage. At the moment, the future lord of Winterfell was lathering in the praises of his fellow alphas. They were envious of him for being able to touch Jon as he pleased and without consequences; they were brothers, after all, and Jon was a bastard.

“We are physical people,” Jon answered without much thought. “Our dances do not require so many rules.”

“Will you show me?”

Jon was taken back by the suggestion.

Wynafryd licked her lips. She touched Jon’s hand—a forward yet appropriate gesture, given their environment. “Please? I am a good student.”

Jon glanced over at Robb, who was still rejoicing over his carelessness. In retaliation for his thoughtless behavior, Jon got up and held out his hand. “Will you join me for a dance, my lady?”

Wynafryd giggled and took his hand. “I believe I shall.”

The two of them made quite a display. The alcohol was settling down until everyone was sitting at rest, watching them with vague interest. There was no proper way to dance like a crannogman—with the exception of practiced performances for rituals and events, there was no structure or routine. Jon returned to his memories—when he was a boy of eight on his nameday or eleven when he celebrated his awakening with his crannog comrades.  He recalled the joy he felt when one of his friends, Lonnel Fenn—whose father was said to be a giant, span together in circles until they tumbled down. He remembered the squeal Lyra Boggs made when he lifted her up in jest. The crannogmen touched and fondled where they could, kissed wherever they were allowed. They swung their hands to loud music and swayed with the breezes. He did not have the space to do so in Winterfell’s dining hall, but took advantage of Wynafryd’s willing body to do what they could. He touched her in a way noblemen would call scandalous—and though their movements were laced with laughter, there was a gleam of intention in both their eyes.

When the music died, there was more cheering, more laughter, more noises proclaiming that daring was an extravagance of the young. Jon turned and saw Robb glaring. He turned back and saw Wynafryd smirking. Between the two, it was the Manderly heiress who took his hand and kissed the back in appreciation. “You are a fine teacher, Jon Snow. I would have your hands on me again.”

Oh, and there was that shrewdness again, wrapped in a façade of frivolity and conceited lust. Jon was no longer naïve to her aims. She was her grandfather’s successor—Lord Manderly had been calling her that since they arrived. She was second in line to the seat of White Harbor but there was never doubt that she was _the_ _heiress_. She wanted their disapproving glares and their quick judgements. It was how the Manderlys stayed in power despite others’ lustfulness for their lands. She was a northerner but her blood ran hot with southern tendencies.

Jon took a step back. He smiled, more gracious than Sansa on her best days. “My lady, there are rumors that you are a skilled player of _cyvasee_. Are you as good as they say?”

Wynafryd raised an eyebrow. “I like to think I am. The White Harbor often dealt with merchants from the east and they taught me the game. I have participated in tournaments in Volantis.”

“I’ve always wanted to learn,” Jon lied. He noticed the others were watching, wondering how this change of topic came about. “Perhaps as payment for this lesson, you could take time to teach me.”

Wynafryd’s eyes sparkled. “I would be honored. Unfortunately, the only time I have is the morning before my family departs. Would you mind joining me for a private breakfast? With your father’s permission, of course! I’ve heard great things about the glass gardens.”

Jon admired the grip forcing his hand. To ask his father for permission would mean recognizing Wynafryd as a genuine contender for his maidenhood. By accepting, Jon would be announcing his official intent to marry. The other suitors were waiting with mindful ears.  

Jon took a step back. He tried not to grimace. “If my father allows it.”

All at once, the visiting noble men and women turned to Lord Stark. He was taken back by the forwardness of both parties. With a cough and some reluctance, he gave his nod of approval. He would assign a chaperone tomorrow.

Lord Manderly laughed and more than ever, the roar resembled thunder before a treacherous storm. Howland stared; there was no emotion on his face. He did, however, turn an eye to his fellow nobles. They, too, watched with great interest. Lord Karstark gripped his goblet; he was seething. Lord Bolton expressed more curiosity towards Howland’s son than he had the entire trip; he mimicked Howland’s actions, assessing the room for his fancy. Lord Umber was not discreet when he urged his son for more initiative. Howland's sister caught his eye; she frowned at him. Her good daughter Dacey whispered something in her ear that made her fingers curl. She took Lyanna into her arms and pardoned herself. Jyana understood what the people present did not.

Jon tipped the hourglass tonight. The game had begun.  

***

Ned Stark drank more than he should and more than he was used to. For most of his young adulthood, he acted as the sober fellow for his friends’ adventures. He accepted the role without a fuss. Tonight, he needed the sacks of wine and goblets of liquor to drown out the gloom of his son’s departure.

“Calm yourself, my love. Jon has accepted no proposals. It is only a meal.”

Howland followed the guards as they escorted the Lord of Winterfell to his bedchambers, which meant it belonged to Howland as well. They were fortunate—Ned was not a belligerent drunk; the only sign of his ale related escapade was his loose footing. He was, nonetheless, forlorn. He grieved Jon as if the boy had died in battle.

Jory laid him on his bed and appointed Howland with the task of caring for him. Howland thanked the men for their assistance. He arranged the pillows so that Ned was sitting upright and prepared a bowl for the horrors of drunkenness.

When Howland moved to undress him, he was pulled into sloppy kiss. Howland laughed at the slovenly gesture used to take off his clothes. He helped so that Ned could focus on worshipping his body with his drunken lips and wandering hands. On the bed, Howland straddled Ned. The liege was motivated by Howland’s happy giggles—a preferred sound to the tremble in his heart.

Ned tugged Howland’s nipple with his teeth to draw him closer. His hands were working out of place with his head. His hands were spreading Howland’s cheeks. He wanted to taste Howland and he wanted to be inside him. Ned stabbed his fingers into his hole.

Howland moaned. He advised him to slow down. “You need to prepare for tomorrow. You still have not picked a chaperone for Jon and Wynafryd. Robb—”

“Not Robb,” Ned grunted. He all but threw Howland in the air so that the younger man could land on his cock. Howland tried to steady himself but Ned refused to relinquish control. Howland whimpered. His instincts flared at the manhandling—he could feel his cunt gushing with each thrust. Ned was digging his fingers into his ass and hips, lifting him up and down whenever he wanted to thrust deeper. Howland wondered how he was going to handle the journey home—his cunt was sure to suffer from the exertion.

Howland grabbed Ned’s hair for balance. Leaning forward gave the Stark better access to his body. He dug his teeth into that white neck and did not let go until Howland gasped. The blood dripped down his chest. Ned licked each drop until he was reacquainted with Howland’s stomach. The flatness triggered madness within Ned. He threw Howland off his cock and onto his bed.

“I should have given you another child,” Ned growled. “The world should have forgotten what you looked like without my pups inside you.” He reentered Howland. His thrusts became sharper. Howland swore the indenture of Ned’s cock could be felt through his belly. “I should have thrown your medicine into the swamps. Kept you on my cock so that you’d forget what it was like to be empty. Locked you in this room so that all that was left was a brooding mare for my babes…” Throughout their fucking, Ned spewed countless regrets. Howland listened to them over his helpless gasps.

“I should have killed Benjen for touching you.”

***

The guards came when they heard Howland scream. They were relieved to find him underneath their lord, passed out and drooling from his crushing orgasm, fingers entangled with the most powerful man in the North. Neither of the two men had enough courage to check for pulses.

Ned woke up hours later—his head splitting from his earlier ambitions with alcohol. His throat felt dry and his bladder was full. Howland was resting beside him. He put on his robe and walked to the closet to relieve himself. When he came back, he found Howland sitting in the nude at his desk with two cups of water in front of him. Ned took one and went back to the bed. He asked if things escalated while he was out of sorts.

Howland chuckled.  “Only you remember Wynafryd requesting privacy with our child; that was the brunt of it.”

“That was enough.” Ned took a large gulp of his water. He sighed. “Jon told me he was not looking for a mate.”

“He is not,” Howland assured. The man was heartbroken by the possibility. The White Harbor was days away from Winterfell. “It is good of him to become well acquainted with nobles of note. We do not want people to perceive him as Lord Stark’s secreted bastard, a treasure hidden from the realm’s eyes.” He drank his share of water. “He needs to expand his repertoire of companions.”

“What is wrong with Winterfell?”

Howland laughed. “There is nothing wrong with Winterfell. Winterfell is wonderful. But it is not the entire world. When he travels to the Neck, he stays on the kingsroad and is forbidden from visiting other houses or holdfasts. He is your precious son—no one would deny that but he is also a mystery.” Howland paused. He walked over to Ned and kneeled. “And perhaps you should consider a similar philosophy with all your children.”

Ned did not say anything. He brought his fingers to Howland’s mouth and Howland’s suckling was instinctive. “You’ve been talking to Catelyn.”

Howland almost choked. Ned drank more water.

When Howland recovered, he got up and sat on Ned’s lap. “I have,” Howland confessed. “Our agendas are compatible.”

“Sending my children away?”

“No,” Howland protested. “Never.” He kissed Ned. “I would never perform an act against you, you know this.” He caressed his lover’s face. “But I want what’s best for our children— _all_ of our children. If that means sending our sons and daughters to the south or the Neck or wherever their destiny lies, so be it. We cannot keep them safe forever.”

“Is that not our duty?”

“To a degree, yes.” Howland pulled Ned into an embrace. “But we should also prepare them for this cruel world without us. We will not be here forever.”

Ned held him tighter. “I cannot imagine a world without you and Jon in this world.”

Howland thought to tell him he’d lived it but decided against such vile teasing. He grasped Ned’s face and smiled. Ned was confused. Howland wanted to laugh at himself. He wondered how he could ever suspect such innocent man of malice. “Tonight…you were saying things that concerned me.”

“What kind of things?” Ned often lost himself in the heat of lovemaking. Howland appreciated his passion.

Howland wondered if he should confess. He shook his head and pressed against Ned’s chest so that he was lying on his back. “That Robb should not be allowed to guard his brother tomorrow.” He straddled Ned’s hips.

Ned groaned as Howland got himself comfortable. “Robb is heat compatible with Jon. I would be inviting a brawl if I put them in the same room with Jon.”

“Are formalities necessary? Jon’s heat was a month ago. His scent is sweet but not tempting.”

“Robb’s instincts will be to protect Jon from potential rivals. Stark men are not known for their self-control when it comes to protecting what’s ours.”

“How so?”

When Howland leaned down to kiss Ned, Ned rolled his body so that they were side by side. Howland squealed. “Ned—!”

“Our mates are _ours_ ,” Ned sounded possessed. His growl caused Howland to tremble. “There are alphas in my family who’ve slaughtered children and burned villages to get to their mates. When my father won my mother’s hand, her cousin, a fleeting Flint of little prestige, challenged my father to a dual. My father grabbed his sword and slit the child’s throat before he could even lift his hand. He crushed his skull out of anger—anger that someone fool could try and take _his mate_ away. The boy mother’s cried for mercy. My mother did not. She never begged for anyone’s life—not hers, not even for my grandfather when those men killed him. Her heat was spurred by the blood. My father rutted her for days.”

Howland found himself growing breathless “Did you thirst for blood in my honor?”

The look on Ned’s face made him bite his lip. Ned gripped Howland’s cock. “Those boys at the tourney…those boys who tried to ravage your body. I tried to settle my rage by beating them at the tourney but it did nothing to remove the bloodlust. I needed them to understand _you were mine_. During the war, they…”

“They were on our side.”

“But they wanted you,” Ned growled. “They said things when they thought my ears were down but my men were loyal and quick to spill their grievances. Out of the hundreds with wandering eyes and loose tongues, only those men _attempted to_ — _they_ were a stain on your veil I had to remove.”

Howland did not ask for details. He provided no judgements when he brought Ned’s knuckles to his lips. “They deserved it; they deserved to die for what they tried to do to me.”

“They were my men in battle, my comrade in arms…I sent them straight to the enemy as fodder for the horses. Being young boys, they only wanted to prove themselves. They did not take kindly to a Northern general—especially one not much older than themselves—but they followed my commands and I sent them to their deaths. One of them, I saw after the Battle of Bells. His foot had been torn off but he could have been saved—I cleaved my sword in his skull and called it an act of mercy.”

Ned took back his hand from Howland’s palm and stroked his lover’s hair. “You are the end of my humanity, Howland.”

Ned returned to his slumber after another round of lovemaking. He slept with Howland’s body draped on top of him. Howland laid without sleeping. He drew circles onto his chest. He thought about their lands and wondered what the snow would look like covered in the blood of men and ruled by the roar of beasts.  

***

Within the same night, Robb marched to his lover’s quarters with a carnal disposition. His attempts were halted by two of his father’s guardsmen. They stood in front of Jon’s room with swords prepared.

“Let me in,” he growled. “I want to speak to Jon.”

“We apologize, Lord Robb. Jon has requested his privacy for tonight. We are to bar entry to all alphas—including you.”

“I am his—” He heaved a breath worthy of drowning man. “—his _brother_. You have no right to keep him from me. Move aside.”

“His requests were quite clear.” They turned to one another. One of them spoke, with more reluctance on the matter, “Your father, prior to his slumber, made it known that he wanted the two of you separated. All alphas pose a potential risk. Return to your quarters.”

Robb was deafened from reason and blinded with rage. He tackled the doorway. “Jon!” He shouted. “Let me go! I need to see him! Jon!” The men were forced to hold him back. They were used to the struggle; his strength now was nothing compared to his ruts but he was getting stronger with age and training.

Jon listened from the safety of his room. He gripped the sheets tighter and tried to drown out his brother’s cries. When the noises died down, he heard his brother grunt in frustration. Finally, there was a slam indicating Robb had retreated to his bedchambers—right next to Jon’s. Jon heard thrashing on the other side of the wall. Robb was destroying his room. Jon whimpered when he heard the glass shattering and the wood snapping. His desk for his studies and the bed he never used since Jon arrived.

He buried his head in the pillows. Everything was going to be okay, Jon thought. He would make it up to him tomorrow. He promised.

***

Despite lacking the aptitude for the game, Jon’s grandmother owned a collection of _Cyvasse_ boards and a set of jade pieces—a memento from her time in the Free Cities. In the game, the players arrange the tiles on the board, with a screen in the middle, so neither can see how the other arranges their board. 

Wynafryd helped him with the placement early on. She told him since they were not actually opponents, she was allowed to guide him. She instructed him on the roles and the rules. She was patient and carried no agitation whenever Jon stopped to ask questions.

They played a few practice rounds before Wynafryd decided they should dedicate one round to his own private arrangements. Jon agreed. During their first game on his own, he continued to ask more questions, starting with the trebuchets and dragons.  

“Thank you for this, Lady Wynafryd. I’m afraid most people have lost patience with me by now.”

“Nonsense,” Wyanfryd dismissed. “I think it’s a blessing that my future wife shares at least one common interest with me.”

Jon’s response was a tense smile. “And what can the crossbowmen do again? To the elephants?”

Wynafryd paused. Her eyes were peering at him; Jon wondered if he should have indulged her flirtation a little longer. Before he could apologize, she answered, “I think you know what they can do, Jon,” Wynafryd folded her hands and leaned in. “Why don’t you make your move and see?”

Jon licked his lips. He used his elephant to dismantle a catapult on Wynafryd’s side. “You were planning to trap my dragon.”

Wynafryd laughed. She positioned her rabble in front of her king. “Indeed, I was. Good call.” Jon made another move while Wynafryd spoke. “That was a lovely show you put on last night. The encore this morning was stunning as well.”

“You are quite the performer yourself,” Jon praised. He finished up and waited for Wynafryd to respond. “Half the court finds you frivolous and the other half thinks of you as nothing more than a loaded skirt chaser.”

“I was going to play the meek bride but that’s a role reserved for my enemies.” She sacrificed an elephant to save her dragon. “I don’t want to be your enemy, Jon.”

“What do you want from me?”

“A pretty wife?”

“There are whore houses for that.”

Wynafryd picked up a sausage and bit into it. She smacked her lips in approval. Then, she revealed her true desire. “Power.”

“I am neither a Stark nor am I a Reed. I have no power to give you.”

“I thought we were dropping pretenses, Jon.” She leaned back. “Centuries ago, my family ruled a land located along the banks of the mighty river Mander in the Kingdom of the Reach. We swore fealty to the Gardener kings to avoid bloodshed and though we are proud descendants of the First Men, we accepted the Andals into our home. Years later, King Garth X sired no alpha heirs—only omegas who were well into their marriages to my family and House Peake. Several counts of murder, conspiracy, and a war later, and we were expelled to the North because a king who was threatened by our power.”

Jon took a few sips of milk to calm his nerves. He was shaking—he hoped the screen shielded his body from sight. “I suppose you want to rule again.”

Wynafryd laughed. “And betray the custody of the lords we swore ourselves to? Nonsense! We had _nothing_ when we left the Reach. We were penniless and friendless. Your family saved us. My family will follow the name Stark until the end of our days.”  

“Then where is the power you seek?”

“Within the glory of the North.” Wynafryd’s response was light and airy, as if she did not ask for the sun to be kept in a bottle. “By reminding the south of our fifty thousand soldiers and our brutal borders and our shivering seas and making it clear that we cannot kneel to kings who have wasted our loyalty on golden whores and pretty horses.”

“You want a war.”

“That is the price for a kingdom.”  

“I don’t want a crown.”

“No, but what you want is not necessarily in lined with what you need. And that alpha of yours—he needs to become king."

Jon continued to deny her. "Why would he want to be king?"

"Because only a king is given so much leniency with his desires.”

Jon stood up. He refused to give this woman any more leeway than he already has. “Cease your treachery—I am willing to dismiss this conversation as mindless dribble by children but we will speak no more of it.”

Wynafryd rebuffed his efforts. “This is treason, Jon. We may be young and it may take decades but this is what the seasons are leading to.” She stared, unwavering in her confidence. “House Manderly will support the Stark claim. We have fifteen hundred soldiers—a number that does not include the people who man our fleets. We have silver. We have ports. You will need us, but we will need the guarantee that our loyalty will be remembered.”

Jon took a deep breath. He looked outside to where Desmond was standing guard. The man heard nothing and was chatting with a serving boy. To Wynafryd’s pleasure, Jon sat back down. He clenched his fist and continued the conversation with great reluctance.

“If your words carry any merit, then you understand the importance of discretion alongside loyalty.” He swallowed to wet his dry throat. “I want to trust you. But it has been centuries since we’ve shared a living relative. My family has ties to the Mormonts, the Flints and their neighboring mountain clans, even the Glovers are closer to us than you. How can you change the way I see things?”

For this question, Wynafryd did not have an immediate answer. Instead, she picked up one of her pieces—a king and handed it over to Jon. “We’ll just have to change that, won’t we?”

***

Jon left the glass gardens with a heavy heart. He ran past Desmond; his guard was completely immersed with whatever his omegan companion had to say and did not sense Jon’s presence until he was a blur. The man ran after him but Jon was too fast. He was running for his life. His brother was lurking nearby. A punishment awaited Jon and the weirwood tree was his only solace.

When he arrived at the godswoods, the world deafened except for the lingering hymn of spirits telling him to remember the feeling of snow on his lips and his mother’s tears. He walked to the weirwood tree in a trance. He stared at the miserly face and though his legs were shaking, he could not bend his knees. Instead, he waited, lulled into a security they could not promise. He felt arms wrapped around him and he did not remove them. He felt a fangs—harsh and unrelenting—bite into his flesh and he did not beg for mercy. He cried out his brother’s name. “Robb…”

The hands on his waist tightened. “You drive me mad,” Robb growled. Jon whimpered when he was forced onto the ground. He ripped off Jon’s pants before undoing his own.

“I watched from a distance as that woman played her games, leaning over to showcase her warm breasts, licking her lips as if she imagines your honey spread over mouth—she wants you and to further your own agenda, you behave like some harlot in a brothel. Is what she’s offering so vital to your cause?”

Jon shivered. He tried to deny Robb’s accusation, keep him ignorant for as long as possible. Robb did not deserve to be held accountable for the blood on Jon’s hands. “Robb, we were talking about the game. There was nothing you should worry about...ah!”

Robb holstered Jon’s legs so that they were wrapped around him. He placed his cock in between Jon’s pussy and moved as if he was thrusting inside him. “I am not a fool, Jon,” he growled. “You came here to ask for forgiveness with a cunt as dry as Dorne. For hours, I watched as you tempt her with your pretty mouth—practically shoved her cock inside you for a conversation. You were playing a game, indeed, but it wasn’t on the board.” Robb maneuvers the tip of his cock against Jon.

“Robb! Stop it! You promised—!”

“I keep oaths to those who deserve my word.” He pushed inside. Jon clenched the dirt. “Tell me your plans or we end everything today.” He leaned down. “I’ll tell father I ravaged you in the godswoods. I’ll showcase your ruined cunt throughout the courtyards, fuck you on the fields if I have to, and make sure every single alpha knows that you’ve tasted your brother’s cock. They’ll see your body wrecked and know that their measly manhoods could never satisfy you.” His cock pushed against Jon’s clit.

Jon’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. Robb’s cock was almost inside him. His pussy was making a puddle on the ground. He struggled for his sanity and gasped out, “Father will—”

“Father will send me to the Wall for defiling you,” Robb concluded. “But I don’t care. Nothing matters if I lose you.” He leaned in to bite Jon’s neck. “I want the North to know you are mine—always and forever. I’ll get you fat with my pups. Can you imagine it? My children feeding off your pretty breasts, milking you as I wood. You’ll spend decades without my cock inside you and know you can never have me again.”

Jon could not keep it any longer. He came, gripping on Robb’s body for balance. He screamed Robb’s name and plead for the gods to help him. He swore to tell Robb everything—all his secrets and plans and every horrid thought he’s had regarding the sovereignty of the North and his doubts about their love.

Both of them rested underneath the weirwood tree, overcome with satisfaction and terror.  

***

Lady Stark was on her way to the sept when she saw her son and the bastard leave the godswoods. She stopped where she was. She took in the sight of Robb’s arm around Jon’s waist and his lighthearted expression. His happiness would have been a welcomed contrast to his behavior this morning—he was livid when he saw Jon’s empty chair. Yet, all she could see was Jon’s damp shirt and his flushed cheeks. Robb would claim a fever was responsible and Jon would obey his reasoning.

She could already imagine their bastards running around Winterfell.

The wind blew. Catelyn tightened the shawl around her shoulders and returned to her journey. The sept would be warmer.

Catelyn was supposed to meet with her husband on the matter of the tourney, but he became distracted by other pressing concerns. According to Maester Luwin, he was already securing rations for the trips—meaning the witch upheld his end of the bargain. She was both relieved and upset, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not dwell on the former alone. Her anger was getting the best of her and still, she remained silent. She stopped throwing tantrums when the witch was present—emotions were objects to Lord Reed; he molded them into a weapon and she was sickened whenever he turned her anguish into a blade.

She walked in the direction of the wind and when she arrived to her destination, the gust settled into dead air. It was colder than before, but the sept was pulsing with heat. Before she could retreat to her haven, someone interrupted her.

“May I have a word, Lady Stark?”

Lady Stark removed her fingers from the handle and turned. She composed herself and tried to smile despite the ice snakes shivering up her spine. “Lord Bolton, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’ve heard that your family will traveling south for the upcoming tourney. I wanted to extend an offer of companionship for the trip. I believe it will present a better image if the houses were to travel as whole—at the very least, it will be a more reasonable expenditure.”

Catelyn could have corrected him by saying that nothing was set in stone, or stalled by declaring that it was a matter better proposed to her husband. Instead, she raised her eyebrow and questioned Lord Bolton’s sources.

“You are quite well-informed, Lord Bolton. I only just proposed the trip to my husband. Perhaps you have more ears in the castle than I do,” Lady cruelly insinuates. “Either way, it is a discussion you should be having with Lord Stark.”

Lord Bolton was not deterred. “I aim to be well-informed, Lady Stark. Besides, your husband is busy with his lover. A shame, but understandable.”

Lady Stark smiled tightly. “I suppose so.” She remembered what she heard in the corridor. From afar, she saw the serving girls walk past them. They knew who was with her—she was safe for the time being. “You and my husband share the same tastes.”

The chill returned tenfold. “Is there something the matter, Lady Stark?”

Catelyn forced a blush on her cheeks. “No, just that I have lived in the castle for some time. I hear things, too. I heard about your proposal to Lord Reed. Oh! But to bring up a rejection is unsightly. Forgive my manners, Lord Bolton. I don’t know what came over me.”  

“It is alright,” Lord Bolton answered without missing a beat. He took a step towards Lady Catelyn. He did not seem remorseful and his boldness made Catelyn breathless. “You are the Lady of Winterfell. You may say and do whatever you please.”

Oh, Catelyn adored the statement, however false it was. She let down an ounce of her defenses, but kept her men at arms. She tried to settle the original matter. “On the matter of the tourney, I will discuss the proposal with my husband. I believe he will find it amendable.”

“Will you be attending?”

“Yes, I’d hope so,” Catelyn admitted. “I miss the south.”

“It has its merits,” Lord Bolton agreed. “Some people are more tolerable than others.”

Catelyn laughed. “Is that all your liege lady is to you? Tolerable?” She was joking; she rarely had the chance to jest with other northerners—her southern company diminished since she was married and she was often by herself.

“You are more than tolerable, Lady Stark. If I was your husband, I would flay the men who say otherwise.”

Catelyn turned her back on Lord Bolton but could feel his stare burrowing into her body. She faced him again. “Have you ever been inside a sept before, Lord Bolton?”\

Lord Bolton answered plainly, “I have. During my trips to the south, I examined their structure.”

“What do you make of them?”

“Big. Showy. A bit unnecessary in its grandeur—with no offense to you, my lady.”

“I took none,” she replied. She looked at the building before her. Smaller than the one in Riverrun but vastly bigger than any other sept in the North—saved for the familial shrine of the White Harbor. “My husband had it made for me. I was distressed when I first arrived to the North, prone to sleepless nights and wild daydreams. He thought it would calm me down some. I think he wanted me to be happy.” She smiled fondly at the pearl painted bricks and the engraved leaves. “When I die, it will be taken down. Unless, of course, my son weds a southern omega.”   

Lord Bolton walked forwards until they were standing side by side. “There is another option.”

Catelyn smiled. “Oh?”

“Another could take Winterfell.”

Catelyn stilled. She turned to the side and saw Lord Bolton’s unmoving face. He bypassed her to open the door to the sept. “Both are viable options,” he explained. “Enjoy your prayer, my lady.”

For the longest moment, she stared at Lord Bolton’s face without a single word. Then, she swallowed. “Lord Bolton, would you like to join me in prayer?” She paused. "No one but my septa enters when I present. We will be alone. No one would say anything towards your reputation." 

 If Lord Bolton was surprised by the offer, he did not show it. Catelyn walked ahead of him and though she did not look back, she could hear his footsteps following her.

***

Later that day, Jon proclaimed he was too ill to attend the final hunt. Many of the alphas protested but were silenced by Lord Stark’s glower. He demanded maester Luwin reserved his unrelenting attention towards his son. While Lady Wynafryd offered to stay behind to nurse him, Robb halted the attempt by personally requesting her companionship during the hunt.

“I want to ride beside you, Lady Wynafryd,” Robb’s smile was as pretty and false as fool’s gold. “Circumstances may permit that we learn to appreciate each other’s presence.”  

Lady Wynafryd hesitated but could not refuse.

The latest hunt was not as successful as the first, but produced a healthy sense of comradery amongst the alphas. Jon did his best to mimic the phenomenon with the other omegas. He was reminded of the Neck with how often he was swarmed with their affection.

Afterwards, the lords and ladies returned at nightfall to pack up. Despite not attaining their desired result, they were happy. Jon was simply a preliminary round—an albeit, beautiful introduction. They would have their chances elsewhere. Lord Stark had three omega children, after all.

Those who were successful acted immediately. True to his promise, Domeric Bolton declared his intent to marry Theon. He furthered his agenda with the promise of a proper courting and a respectable dowry request. He was direct, which he knew Lord Stark would appreciate, and made the pretense of asking Theon for his permission—as if the boy’s hand was his own to give.  

Theon shook when he answered yes. He cried a bit, much to Domeric’s displeasure. When Lord Stark asked if he was alright, he nodded and said he was happy that an alpha like Domeric thought so much of him.  

Good boy, thought Domeric. When the attention turned back on him, he continued with his proposal. “I am participating in a tourney soon. I want Theon to attend. If I win, I will gladly crown Theon my queen of love and beauty—though I must admit, such a feat is a stretch.” He was one of the best riders in the North and would easily slaughter the southerners on horseback. 

Ned nodded. He was impassive towards the proposal. “I will send a raven to Pyke illustrating the terms of the betrothal and the rest of the dowry can be negotiated at Dreadfort. If Lord Greyjoy does not send someone—” Theon winced at the likely possibility. “—then rest assure, I will send someone to go in their place.”

Domeric was cruel. “Robb, I assume. For practice towards his real siblings.”

Theon did not cry this time. He waited until the meeting was over and sobbed in the comforts of his own room. He had enough dignity to mourn his freedom in solitude.

Jon said goodbye to his mother without a tear in his eye. The sun of ambition dried out his eyes. He kissed his mother and siblings and promised to see them soon. Meera mocked him for his happiness. She joked that he wanted them to leave. Jon poked her ribs and told her not to be silly.

“I am not a child anymore. I will not cry for someone I expect to see again and soon.”

Meera giggled. "Good answer." 

Howland stroked his cheek and praised his bravery. He hugged his family farewell. After watching them leave the gates, he returned to his room. Robb was waiting by his desk. Beside him were two large hourglasses.

Jon licked his lips.

Robb tipped the first hourglass over. The sands poured onto the ground. “Two more days,” Robb reminded as he captured Jon’s lips. He stripped him of his shirt so that Jon’s breasts were on display. He admired their swollenness. A small bead of white dripped from his nipples. 

Robb stared.

“A repercussion of the medicine,” Jon moaned.

Robb started pinching his nipples. Then, he started squeezing. More dribbles slewed out. Robb chuckled. He took off Jon’s pants and fingered his crotch. Jon was getting wet. “That’s more like it,” he explained. “Milk and honey—my favorite things in the world.”  

While Robb kept Jon company, Ned and Catelyn were left alone. Ned could not sleep. Walking over to his trunk, he received a tiny wooden box. He opened it and the hymn of the crannogmen rang throughout the room. He heard Howland’s voice. He went back to bed and laid there until his lover’s lull put him to sleep.

Catelyn’s methods for rest were much more plain. She asked for tea. When her handmaiden left the room, she got out a pouch of red powder and dropped a spoonful into the steaming liquid with some honey and mint for flavor.

The ceremony ended that night. One of them would be married before the end of the year. It was a success in all definitions of the word.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was disgustingly ill last week. I thought it was just hayfever and then it turned out to be a real fever and here we are. I know I don’t have to update “on time” but I like the idea of stability and discipline. I’m afraid if I don’t update regularly, I’ll start believing that I don’t have to update at all. Anyways, however late, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, though!  
> Several reference points for this story:  
> a) Targaryeans will not be involved in this story and neither will the white walkers. Putting them in is far too much work and there are no particular voids that need to be filled by them. This does not mean, however, that the wildlings aren't going to be involved. I can't do that to Tormund, Mance Ryder, or Ygritte.  
> b) “Heat Compatibility” refers to alpha-omega pairs whose heats and ruts synchronize. It is NOT comparable to soulmates (which is more or less a romantic notion rather than an actual occurrence—same as our world). Being heat compatible is supposedly the body’s way of detecting the best breeding partner. Ned was heat compatible with both Howland and Catelyn. Brandon was compatible with Lyanna. As implied by Lord Manderly, there are artificial methods to incur compatibility but they have side effects (i.e. my explanation for the Targaryean madness because there's not way to justify incest without it!).


	11. Chapter 11

Since they were children, Robb’s blood burned with the ferocity of a warrior. Jon theorized that such heat dissolved any inclination towards politics that once resided in his body. Fortunately, the Snow Child was not as narrow-minded. His mother was living proof that omegas could be warriors and though they would never garner the respect and reputation of their Northern counterparts, they could still rise above their statuses using various talents and schemes. Jon would never be as big as Robb or but he could see the cracks in the pavement that Robb missed. He could think in the long term as oppose to Robb’s quick wits and perhaps that would be enough to elevate him to the platform of a ruler.

More than ever, Jon needed to diversify his strengths. After their father had decreed that the Starks would be attending the tourney in the south, Robb was a devotee to the lance and Ser Rodrik was his septon. He made it known that he promises to fulfill. Following a rather exceptional practice, he proclaimed that if he were to win, he’d crown his brother as the queen of love and beauty. 

Jon choked on his drink. Lady Stark drank her wine with a tense expression.

Ned paid no mind to the declaration. “It is your first southern tourney. Conceit will only lead to your demise.”

Robb flushed with embarrassment. “You are right, father. I apologize. I just wanted to make my intentions clear.” Robb smiled. “But our northern steeds are more resilient than their mild mares. I think I have a good shot at placing in the novice rounds.”

Lord Stark tried not to smile and settled for a twitch of the lips. He, too, believed that Robb was capable of claiming victory from the South. Lady Stark was the first to speak. “The laurel is quite an honor. Perhaps you should refrain from making any serious declarations. If you were to find another omega you fancy, it would be the finest start for courtship. No one would dare contest.”

Before Robb could correct her assumption, his father spoke against the counsel. “I’d rather Robb restrict his winnings to his siblings. We don’t need him in the lap of another alpha’s bride.”

Lady Stark tightened her grip around her goblet. To avoid an altercation between his parents, Robb hastily agreed with his father. He then took Jon’s hand and kissed his wrist. “Mother, I want the world to know that anyone who desires my brother needs to earn the approval of the man who plans to stab them through the heart.” 

Jon rolled his eyes and took his hand back. “Let us hope such a man does not lay you on your ass.” Their siblings giggled. They did not understand the lust in their eldest brother’s eyes while their father played the blind man to their flirtation.

Robb trained harder after that night. Motivated by his oath, he performed as if his trainers were competitors for his brother’s hand. Ser Rodrik was an excellent teacher, having won many tourneys in his prime. He taught Robb the markings and instructed him on where to aim for the most effect. Robb was a prodigy in all acts of violence—ideal for an alpha. For days, Jon watched him remove his father’s men off their horses and trampled on their pride. He spent his days consumed with thoughts of victory that he ignored his corporal weaknesses—except at night when his bones gave out, and flesh turned blue. At night, Robb held onto Jon warmth, but that was the limit to their physicality. Days turned to weeks, and Jon came to the unsettling realization that he was still a virgin.

This tourney was becoming more of a hassle than expected.

To avoid being disappointed with Robb’s distracted state, he devoted himself to his training and settled for touching himself when Robb was away. They did not even take baths with each other anymore. Their daily rituals long fell out of synchronization.

At the moment, Jon was with Theon learning groundwork. Robb was finishing up his practice. Lord Stark waited for him to complete his last trial run of the day. Ned was in no hurry; he enjoyed listening to Ser Rodrik’s praise. 

“He has an eye for weak points. He knows where to hit, even if his opponent is unaware themselves. I think we can expect favorable results from his first tourney. He'll be put in the novice rounds, as per their customs. If that is the case, he will most likely place. He might even win.”

Lord Stark nodded. He was proud of his son’s progress and hoped the best for his performance. He never voiced a word of this to Robb, though. The boy had enough weight on his shoulders without his father’s expectations piled on top of them.

When his son returned from the stables, Ned beckoned him over. Robb followed without question. They stopped at the towers overseeing another practice. Jon was wrestling with Theon, and though Greyjoy was older and larger, Jon was nimble enough to slip out of his grasp numerous times. Robb could not say a word to his father, but the sight of Jon wrapping his legs around Theon’s neck was enticing. His brother’s flexibility was the stuff of fantasies. 

“I heard your training has been going well.”

“I…” Robb paused. He tried to formulate the best response in his head. His father thought pride was a wasteful vice, but the lord hated false humbleness as well. He considered what Jon would say in his place.

“I’m sure Ser Rodrik would have the most to say on that matter,” said Robb, an air of caution in his tone.

“We have spoken. He has high expectations for you.”

And what about you, father? Robb thought. His father said nothing, negative or otherwise, about his training. He wondered if anything he did was up to par for the Stark patriarch. “I hope I can live up to his expectations.”

“You will.” Ned paused.

When Jon was a baby, Ned often cradled him in his arms and whispered his never-ending love. He called him ‘perfect’ and ‘beautiful’ and ‘the most brilliant thing he ever made.’ Ned was scared that Jon, as a bastard, would never know love like his siblings. Howland asked Ned if he spoke such kind words to his heir.

“He is my son. He already knows he is loved,” Ned had replied.

“But do you say it out loud? Does he hear your affections when you speak?”

“I love all my children.” He remembered looking down at Jon’s small body and wondering what would happen if he held on too tight. “But Jon is special. He needs more attention than my trueborn children will.” 

Howland laughed and got dressed for his daily duties. “That poor boy,” Howland mused. “To be born a Stark and not a Reed. He will know his father’s hand before his heart.”

In the present day, Lord Stark turned to his son. “Your best is all I ask for.”

Robb startled at the confession. He nodded. “Yes, father!”

The sound of a heavy fall broke their concentration. They turned to see Theon forced onto the ground by Jon. Their trainer, Mikken’s omega, praised Jon’s technique. “Wonderful! Did everyone see the way Jon got out of Theon’s grasp? How he twisted his body? Even though he’s not as strong, he was able to gain the upper hand with his flexibility. I want you to learn from that.”

Jon grinned. He let go of Theon and laughed as the other boys and girls praised him. As Jon was about to retreat for the next pair's match, Theon let out a scream of frustration. He slammed his fists onto the ground. Without warning, he got up and tackled Jon. Jon gasped as his face hit the floor and the dirt scraped his cheek.

“Jon—!” Robb cried out. He moved to abandon his post, but his father held him back. “Calm down, Robb. I want you to watch your little brother.”

“I am watching! That’s how I saw Theon—!”

“Watch. Don’t speak.”

Jon waited a moment or two, perhaps out of shock, before getting out of the chokehold. The result was Theon thrown on his back. Jon hastily straddled him and pushed his weight on his chest to limit Theon’s breathing.

“What is the matter with you?” Jon yelled.

Theon said nothing. He struggled to be released but winded up losing breath and choking. Jon was ordered to get off him. Jon complied, but his annoyance was evident. Before Theon could receive his lecture, he stormed off. Jon, in a fit of anger, shoved the comforting hand off. Jon chased after the older boy.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen your brother angry.”

The moments were rare. Jon was beautifully submissive. Robb needed to commit horrible follies to incite his anger. “Theon was childish. I will speak to him on the matter,” Robb assured. Inwardly, he sighed, wondering why such troublesome matters must burden him. 

He did not notice the fond expression on his father’s face, prompted by Robb’s casual acquittal to his duty.

“Your brother has been on edge. Do you know if it is related to the courtship ceremony? Was he upset by the results?”

Robb could have scoffed. The two of them had been relieved to discover that while Theon was propositioned, Jon remained available. No one had asked for his hand in marriage—not even the Manderly girl. Perhaps the other suitors were waiting for their options to expand; maybe no one found themselves worthy of Robb’s criteria. Then there was the possibility that Lady Wynafryd frightened them off more than Robb did. No one wanted to face a humiliating rejection from a bastard, and no one was willing to compete with the granddaughter of the second richest man in the North.

“I assure you father; Jon is happy to retain his independence for a while longer. He wants to remain with his family.” Jon wanted to remain in Robb’s bed with his legs spread open and his cunt dripping from the constant intrusion of a cock. He wanted Robb’s lips on his chest, his tongue in his hole, and hands on his flesh.

“He is still young,” Ned cautioned. “There is still so much the world has to offer him and I want him to have the best.”

Robb tightened his fist. “Winterfell is the best,” he reminded his father. “Jon is a northerner. He is a Stark. The best for him is Winterfell. It will always be Winterfell.” It would always be _him_. Robb repeated, with more resolution, that he was the best for Jon, regardless of what his father believed.

***

Robb and his father parted ways when their mother made her appearance. Catelyn had been in good spirits as of late and praised her son’s progress upon her arrival. After kissing him on the cheek, she told him that she needed to speak to his father about their travel arrangements. Robb nodded his understanding.

“I’ll take my leave. Father. Mother.”

The two watched their eldest walk away. As soon as Robb was out of sight, Ned led the way to his study. She brought out a parchment and a pre-inked quill and followed.

“The lords want to confirm who will be attending. I have already written down Robb and Jon, and Sansa and Arya’s as well.”  
“Arya?”  
“Since Sansa refuses to be left behind for her brother’s first southern expedition, I imagine Arya will submit her protests as well. They are both old enough to travel and being next to each other will limit their complaints. Sansa will hold her tongue if she is seen as spoilt compared to her sister, Arya will remain silent if Jon is around and Jon is used to long trips so he will have no grievances.”

Ned’s lips quirked at his wife’s ingenuity. “Thank you,” he told her. “And Bran and Rickon?”

“Bran and Rickon will stay as planned. It is a great distance to travel and I rather not burden the other lords to accommodate their youth. Perhaps the next one,” Catelyn suggested. “Bran wants to see the knights.”

“We’ll see how this event turns out. If all goes well, I will have no issue sending my children more frequently to the South. It will be a good experience for all of them.”

The statement implied that Ned’s firm stance on southern alliances was softened to a flexible mold. Howland must have been particularly persuading. Catelyn stifled her jealousy as she did all envy concerning her husband’s mistress. She wondered what Howland had said to bring forth such accommodation. Catelyn wished she could learn. “You’ve been sitting on the issue of attending. Have you made your decision, Ned?” She asked.

“I have.”

Ned opened the door to his study and held the door for her. Catelyn entered as commanded and took her seat. As soon as she did that, she reached over to where he kept his ink and wetted her pen once more. She waited.

“I will not be attending the tourney. There are too many loose ends at Winterfell to address.” 

“Oh.” Catelyn wrote down the following information on the paper. “I see. Well, this is important news indeed. We should make a list of the guards you are willing to part with. I know it is a lot to ask, but Ser Rodrik has expressed his desire to see Robb perform for his first tourney and—”

“Catelyn.”

Catelyn stopped writing, but Ned could see her fingers tremble. “I heard from Maester Luwin that your father’s health has gotten worse.”

Being born with a title and marrying into infidelity meant that patience and composure were second nature to her. She forced herself not to think of the Riverrun’s raven and its heart-wrenching message.

“Crabs in the belly are not known to produce favorable results,” Catelyn stated evenly. She distracted herself by drawing another list for Ned’s men. “But he is in the early stages of his illness. The maesters predict another three, perhaps four years. I have time.”

“Time you should spend with him,” Ned spoke out. He sighed and left his seat to be beside Catelyn. He took her writing hand in his. “I was barely there for my mother when she passed. I do not want the same regret to linger in your heart.”

“I…” She sighed. “Ned, I cannot.”

“If your father needs extended care, you are welcomed to prolong your stay in the South. I’ll tell the guards to escort you.”

Catelyn’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “I have my duties, my lord.”

Ned stared at his wife. “I think if I were ill, having my children by my side would be the best medicine. Your loyalty to your father is a duty in itself. Do not feel obliged to abandon him for me as he would not have abandoned you for the world.” Ned gripped her hand. “Bran sleeps in his room and Rickon is weaned.” Ned paused. “You should be there for your father.”  
For the longest time, Catelyn cannot say anything. “Thank you,” she breathed out at last. She could not contain the tears in her eyes. She smiled and looked as innocent as she did on the day Brandon proposed, untouched by war and infidelity. “Thank you, Ned.” A sudden burst of boldness rose up within her. “I…I want to bring the children if that is alright. If only for a few days—it will be after the tourney, of course! We can stay at Riverrun on the journey back. That way, we would not inconvenience the other lords. And it will not be long. I will send them ahead after my father has seen them! The weather is perfect for a swim in the lakes. Sansa and Robb have said they would like to swim in warm waters for a change and my father would love to see how the children have grown. If…even Jon can stay,” Catelyn informed reluctantly. She would warn Robb to keep his brother in his room—her father would rather the bastard sleep in the woods than enter as a guest.

Ned smiled, and though it was small, it made her heart weep. “I am not opposed to letting our children join you. They should know where their mother comes from.” He let go of her hand. “But I will not force him to accommodate my son. I will ask that Jon is escorted to the Neck. If Robb is discovering his southern roots, then Jon should take the opportunity to be reintroduced to his own. He has not spent more than a few days there in the last four years. He will enjoy the trip.”

Catelyn’s relief was immeasurable. She looked down at her hand where her husband touched and tried not to be so elated at the sensation. The moments of compassion they shared were rare, limited to the joy they felt towards their children. His gentleness was a treasure in ways Ned would never be able to understand. When she left the room, she placed a hand over her heart. She wondered how many moments it would take for her guilt to overcome her sorrows.

***

For the four years they’ve been together, Jon had allowed Theon to escape from many grievances. He learned at a young age that Theon’s haughtiness was to deceive his self-deprecation and his tantrums were releases of frustration—how his status as a prisoner and ward remained unchangeable, how his father had not answered a single letter or showed an ounce of love, how he was an outsider despite desperately wanting to be a northerner.

Jon was forgiving, but Theon was tipping over the edge of mercy and Jon was not as eager to pull him to safety. He was tired. Theon was older. He was to be a bride, and it was time for him to learn that not everyone was as understanding as the Starks.

Theon was rampaging through his room when Jon slammed the doors opened and forced himself upon the older boy. He pushed the Greyjoy onto the bed. Theon thrashed about like a fish on land. “Get off me! Jon!” He screeched. He tried to throw a punch to no avail. “What is wrong with you?”

“I should be asking that!” Jon hissed. “You’ve been impossible since the ceremony! I am tired of it, Theon!”

Theon could not answer for his behavior. He scratched and hissed and snapped his jaw like a rabid dog, and Jon fought him tooth and nail, uncompromising and unyielding. Jon caged Theon with his nimbleness—he entwined his legs between Theon’s. His forearm pressed against Theon’s larynx and constrained his breath.

“Let go!” Theon gasped out.

“Not until you tell me what has caused you to behave like some half-witted liver eater who is so desperate for a fight, he hurts the people who loves him!” Jon tightened his grip when he felt Theon about to escape. “For gods’ sakes, you are about to be married, Theon!”

The fact made Theon struggle harder. When he failed to break free, he screamed, “You all must be so happy to be removed of the burden in your home!” He quit struggling. “I will be someone else’s problem soon so leave me alone!”

“You are not a problem, Theon.” Jon loosened his grip enough for Theon to catch his breath. He sighed. “Is this about your sister? I heard your father refused to let her come for your dowry.”

“No one lets Asha do anything,” Theon sneered. “If she does not come, it is of her own doing. She’s probably disgusted that her little brother has become some northerner’s bitch.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “So this is about your sister?”

“No!” Theon protested. “This is about you Starks treating me like a pawn and after I’ve served my purpose, _to a point where my family has forsaken me_ , you are handing me off to be someone else’s toy. Good riddance! I am grateful to wash my hands of you lot!”

Jon let him go. When Theon thought himself free, Jon struck him. Theon cradled his burning cheek.

“You are an ungrateful fool. My father has done nothing but care for you these last few years. He has supported your desire for a ceremony and has promised to aid you with the dowry—all above his duty. My siblings and I have loved you like a brother. You have no right to say the things you do.” Jon glared. “We are your family, Theon. Perhaps more so now that yours has abandoned you.”

The words stung. Theon wanted to deny them, but he had no place to do so. He had just dismissed their attention seconds earlier and was left with Jon’s accusation ringing in his ears. “Get out,” he hissed.

“Theon.” Jon’s voice was firm. “I am not leaving until you understand that this—this behavior of yours in unacceptable. We are not your enemies. You cannot keep building these defenses and striking our cores while expecting us not to retaliate.”

Theon said nothing.

“Theon?”  
The older boy got up. “You said it yourself: I am to be married. I will no longer be your problem.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“No,” Theon hissed. “But it is the truth. I will be the Lord of Dreadfort, the omega of the flayed men. I will rule over the skin dungeons and be feared as a fleshing knife. There is nothing you can do about it.” Theon would settle into his cold home, wrapped in the chokehold of a man who will spear him on his ice prick while Lord Bolton’s men licked their chapped lips and imagined doing the same. He was trapped—and he would never know the taste of salt or the touch of fire ever again.

Even the Starks cannot defeat the cold.

Before Jon could defend himself, there was a knock on his door. Robb came in, freshly bathed with the scent of Douglas fir on his skin. Farlan restocked their soaps, and the merchants were generous in their variety. The arousal brought upon by the scent was a welcome distraction to Jon’s strife.

Robb entered the room as if their fight did not happen. The two of them were not quiet; Jon knew it was impossible for Robb not to have heard them having a go at each other. Instead, he kissed Jon on the cheek and settled for a dispassionate grope on his ass. His actions bordered obscure; Theon scoffed without recognizing the perverseness of Robb’s palm.

“If only my betrothed was so affectionate,” Theon mocked. “Well, your lover is here. Be on your way.”

Jon gritted his teeth. “Theon, I have warned you against saying such things, even in jest.”

“Actually, if it is alright with Theon, I would like to have a moment with him in private.” 

The two omegas were taken back by the request. Jon turned to his older brother. “Robb?”

“What do you want to speak about?” Theon asked. His body swelled with pride from the look of distaste on Jon’s face. The child was so insecure about losing Robb’s affection—never mind that Theon knew him first. Their familiarity made Jon unnerved. His insecurity was heightened when Robb was selected to be Theon’s guardian and not Jon’s (never mind, thought Theon, that it had less to do with Robb and Theon’s romantic intentions and more to do with their bodies disinterest with one another).

“A small matter. Since the raven from Pyke, I suspect father will send me to Dreadfort in Lady Asha’s stead.” Robb stroked his little brother’s cheek. He pecked his lips. “I will see you before dinner, in our room.” He placed a hand on Jon’s waist. “Put on a dress tonight.” A skirt for his hands to play with or easy access to fondle those pretty parts Robb longed to ravish.

Jon was torn. He did not want to give the appearance of distrust, but he did not want to leave the matter with Theon unsettled. The younger boy sent a suspicious glance towards Theon before leaving the room. Theon rolled his eyes.

Robb walked up to his father’s ward and brushed his finger against Theon’s swelling cheek. “You should not agitate him. He may not look it, but he has a wicked temper when pushed.”

Theon slapped his hand away. “I know that temper firsthand.”

Robb chuckled. “Yes…then you should know that it only appears when someone has gone too far. You’ve been stepping on quite a few toes, and I don’t appreciate the way you’ve been treating Jon.”

“Because Jon comes first,” Theon spat out. “He always does. The second he arrived within these halls, my position towards the throne went from the floors to the crypts.”

“That is not fair,” Robb pointed out. “Jon is your friend. He has always been there for you.”

Theon could tell he was struggling to keep calm. He took to insults against Jon like arrows against him.

“He went through that travesty of a ceremony for you—regardless of how he felt about the alphas slobbering over him. In case you are inclined to forget, you can get married because of him.”

Theon would never forget it. Though he knew it was unreasonable to get angry at Jon for fulfilling his desires, he could not help but resent the outcome and the road leading to it. He was angry at Jon. He was angry at the Starks. He was angry at himself for digging this hole and for requesting Jon hand him the shovel. He was a fool, and he could tell no one—not without his shame being revealed.

Robb eyed him with caution. He moved around Theon so that he could sit on his bed. “Sit with me, Theon. It’s been awhile since we’ve spoken intimately.”

“Before Jon came,” Theon reminded. “We were close before your infatuation turned to another omega.”

The jealousy was evident in his voice. Robb was amused. He knew at one point Theon humored the idea of them marrying each other. Robb would keep the secret to his grave, but he considered the same before he met Jon. Theon’s figure was mouthwatering; only a blind man would ignore the truth in front of them. Neither of them held much hope after Jon’s arrival and Robb’s first rut. When Robb and Theon proved incompatible, neither of them entertained the notion any longer. They were not upset, but Theon held a vial of bitterness—less from his affection towards Robb and more towards the evidence that to Robb’s inner alpha, Theon was less attractive than a bastard. The notion was a passing offense but it must have aided Theon’s insecurity.

“You were infatuated with Jon as well.” Robb pointed out. “We all were.” He motioned Theon to sit and Theon, unable to disobey an alpha’s command, sat. Robb leaned towards him. “May I tell you something I’ve never told Jon?” The confession caught Theon’s attention. He looked up from his petulant stance.

The Stark’s gaze was smothering.

“I’ve always appreciated the form of the male omega above the female. There’s something undeniably erotic about the union between the two sexes I cannot resist.” Robb was staring at Theon’s body in a way that could have been perceived as lustful. Theon shivered and corrected himself. No, he knew what lust felt like. This was fascination, perhaps even admiration if one were to be kind. “Your bodies are harder, with…with all these angles, sharp as swords but there’s an aching softness about your flesh, more fat in your cheeks. The way your breasts bounce—it’s more noticeable on your chests. As an alpha, I’m tempted to fondle as I please. You cannot imagine the pleasure of it; the satisfaction of a squirming omega in your lap while you play with his nipples and milk them from the top. Their masculinity cannot be denied, but instead of making us want to reject you, it stimulates our instincts to dominate. As a man and alpha, I see a male omega and know there is nothing more satisfying that forcing one into submission, spilling my seed into him and making him bear my children.”

Theon listened with the echo of heavy breaths and blood boiling his flesh red. He was so consumed with Robb’s description that he almost missed Robb’s last, damning commentary.

“…Ramsay and I had a marvelous conversation on the matter.”

Theon held his breath. Robb took a moment to lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes, humming a playful tune that contrasted the damnation he accused Theon of. 

“You have not told anybody, have you? Not even your best friend.”

“How do you know about Ramsay?”

Robb ignored the fright in his voice. “We struck an alliance during the ceremony. He knew I shared no bias towards bastards and I was confident he cared little for my Jon.”

“You need higher standards for friendship.” Theon turned away. “He is a monster.”

“Jon is my everything. It should come of no surprise that he is my cause for building power.”

Robb never shared Jon’s hesitance for confessing his love. Theon never caught on to their romantic implications and figured their affection was an ongoing joke between the two of them. He figured all alphas were as possessive of their little brothers. He would not know. His siblings’ coldness served to warp Theon’s perspective in multiple ways for Robb to take advantage of.

“Ramsay is a bastard. He has no power.” Theon paused. “He speaks about me?” He asked softly.

“We share a raven. You are one of the only things we talk about. That, and how he is being sent to live with one of House Bolton’s vassals. His brother is concerned that Ramsay’s presence will be a… _distraction_ for his future wife.”

Theon’s heart clenched. He had been wondering what had happened to the bastard son. He was livid after Theon’s acceptance. Theon waited all night, not catching a wink of sleep, for Ramsay’s arrival so that he could explain himself.

Ramsay never came.

“He will be happy to know he is in your heart.”

Theon clenched his fist. “He has no heart to do the same.” Theon moved to leave, but Robb grasped onto Theon’s arm. The Stark stared at Theon, wary of escape. “Lay with me.”

Theon flushed. “I won’t be Jon’s replacement.” He tried to turn away. Robb’s grip was firm.

“No one can replace Jon. I would never mock him by trying. Lay with me; we are brothers, Theon.”

Helpless and silent, Theon took his place beside Robb. He laid down on the sheets and could feel the heat pulsing from Robb’s body. “You’re warm.”

Robb smiled. “So are you.”

They laid like that for a while. Robb closed his eyes. Theon was encouraged to follow suit and right as he was about to drift to sleep, Robb asked him what would happen if Ramsay was the second son and not a bastard.

Theon sighed. Not this again. “A second son would be lucky to taste the sides, let alone partake in the main course. I’ve made the right decision.” The smart decision. Second to the Starks in power and fourth in wealth, being wed to the heir of Dreadfort was a blessing.

“But what if? What if I made Ramsay a legitimate son? He is an ambitious young man; I’m sure he’ll use his newfound status to his advantage.”

Theon did not doubt it. He did not doubt that Domeric’s next meal would be a feast of fattened worms upon flesh and mud in a wooden casket. Theon chuckled at the image. “Do you plan to petition the king on my behalf? You Starks are far too kind to a traitor’s son.”

Robb denied the suggestion. “I do not care if you are a traitor’s son.”

“King Robert might.”

“King Robert would not be the one to perform the act.”

Theon stopped laughing.

Robb sat up. “I asked: ‘what if I were the one to legitimize Ramsay?’ He would certainly be more loyal to me than his brother. And when considering the Bolton’s history of treachery, loyalty is something I need right now.”

For what? Theon thought. “You cannot do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because—!” Theon tried to steady his breath. “Because only a king has the power to give titles to bastards.”

Robb said nothing. The younger boy got off his bed and straightened his shirt. He checked himself in the vanity, brushing off a stray curl from his head. Theon’s instincts told him to remain alerted.

“Perhaps I shall become king, then.”

Not even Theon’s heart risked making a sound. Robb turned away from the mirror and smiled at Theon as if his suggestion would not lead to a beheading. He walked back to him. It took everything in Theon’s power not to retreat to his sheets. When Robb moved to kiss his cheek, Theon shunned him. Robb kissed his forehead instead. “You are my brother. Perhaps not in blood, but I have cared for you as if you were from the same womb. Jon cares about you. I know this spat is just passing. You should make up with him. Siblings need to love each other.”

Theon would never be loved like Jon, not by Robb or by his older sister. He told Robb as such. “My sister does not care about me.” His voice was not as steady as he would like. “She thinks I’m a whore.” 

“You don’t know that.” Robb licked his thumb and used it to brush away Theon’s bangs. “Your father sent the letter, but we’ve always known how your father felt about you, haven’t we?”

Theon could have cried then. The tears welled up in his eyes. Robb sweetened his message to avoid a flood. 

“But your sister has never done anything to lose your affections. She is always at sea so her letters are far and in between, but they are there. And she sends you gifts on your nameday, even though the way of your people says otherwise.”

“She refused to negotiate my dowry!” Theon protested. “She—she doesn’t want to come to my wedding.”

“She is afraid you are losing your lineage. She is scared of losing you.”  
“Asha isn’t afraid of anything,” Theon hissed, half with disbelief and the other half, pride.

Robb chuckled. “We are all afraid of something. You are her precious, omega brother. I’ve told you this before. She has lost you for over half a decade and now must face the fact that you will be gone to her forever. You have decided to marry a northern man in a northern ceremony. She is losing what she believed was hers.” Robb explained. “It’s an unspoken fear amongst us alphas.”

“You are lying.”

“I am not,” Robb promised. “Trust me, Theon. I have four omega siblings. I fear the day I will lose them to an alpha, one who might not take care of them like I can or will mistreat them without me knowing. I might never see them again. My mother has not visited her sister since the birth of her nephew. It is a painful sensation, but it is one I must survive.”

Theon wiped away his tears. “What do I do, then?”

Robb held Theon’s hand. “Write to your sister and tell her how much you miss her. How much you love her and want to see her again before you are married. It may be the last time you meet in person. Speak from the heart.” Robb leaned in. He kissed Theon on the lips, lightly and with the affection of a brother.

Theon swooned regardless. He wondered when the little boy who used to follow his skirts became a man.

“Your sister will one day be the Lady of the Iron Islands. We will need her to remember that she loves her little brother, the future Lord of Dreadfort. A northern house.” Robb took a deep breath and inhaled Theon’s scent. He smiled fondly. “Because you will be the lord, one way or another.”

***

In another room, Arya and Sansa were fighting again.

Jon could have screamed.

Though the two sisters have never gotten along, their tensions tripled since his ceremony. While Jon denied the possibility of him being married off, the two girls were convinced that their time together was fleeting. They were determined to consume his company before he was gone for good. Jon loved his sisters, but their bickering made it so that he was a stranger to peace. The two girls competed for his attention as if he were the crown. At the beginning, he was flattered, but today, he was frustrated. Robb was with Theon. Theon was a bitch. Arya was yelling. Sansa was snide. And Jon was still a fucking virgin!

“I found Jon first. He and I were supposed to go over my training for father. I’ll be learning how to fight very soon. I am going to be skal…warrior, like him! He doesn’t want to play your stupid games!”

“It’s pronounced _skjaldmær_. See, you can’t even say it! It must not be that important. Besides, Jon is tired. He has been training all morning. He wants to relax with me. People don’t want to behave like animals all the time, Arya.” 

“Some people want to be exciting—!”

“Both of you, shut up!”

The two fell silent. Jon rubbed his temples and took a deep breath.

“You have been acting like toddlers all week! This is not the proper behavior of a lady—” And before Arya could look down on her sister, Jon continued, “Nor is it fitting for a warrior. You two are sisters; it is time you act like it.”

“But Jon—!”

“I said _enough_!” Jon sighed. At least their protests were in unison. “Do you know how much I long to see my sister again? My little brother? I see them three times a year if I am lucky and I worship every second I am with them. To see you fighting with each other while I must wait weeks for a raven is an insult to me.” 

At least they had the decency to look ashamed. They turned away from each other but did not meet Jon’s gaze either. Jon grabbed the two of them and pulled the girls into a hug. It was a feat. Arya was smaller than him, but Sansa has always been tall for her age, and her limbs overwhelmed Jon’s body. Despite the hardship, he did everything within his power to hold onto them for as long as he could. He relished in their scents: poppy seeds and lemons, baked apples and spiced woods, and the fresh snow that lingered on all the Stark children. He prayed for the ice never to melt.

“You have to stand by each other. You two may be too young to understand, but we are Starks; we have a lot of enemies. For you two, a fight is fight; a mere conflict between siblings. To others, it is an opening for much worse. People will try to take advantage of that, and you cannot let them. Starks are wolves. Wolves hunt in packs or they starve as one.”

Jon paused to see if his words made any impact. When he saw their shamed expressions, he continued. “Sansa, Arya, listen to me and never speak a word of this outside our family. Things are going to change. The North is going to be the center of the world, and you two will be at its peak. Don’t be disillusioned into thinking that because you are omega and female that you have no worth beside your wombs.” He pressed his lips against Sansa’s red hair and tightened his grasp on Arya’s hand.

“When Robb becomes the Lord of Winterfell, he will need all of our love. You need to support his claim to these lands at all costs. There’s a tall tale that a woman’s loyalty is to her husband, but that is not true—it is your ambition you must place before anyone else’s and your family will love you regardless of what that is.”

Jon allowed the words to sink in their hearts before he released them. He kissed both of his sisters: Sansa first, for she was the oldest and most likely to flee and Arya second, because he could count on her to stay. He was about to suggest a different game for them to play together when he heard the door opening. He thought it was Robb and decided to ignore him. A petulant act, but one that usually led to long kisses and begging on Robb’s part.

“Arya, Sansa, are you in here?”

Jon froze.

Lady Stark walked into the room uninvited. Jon held his breath. His sisters mimicked him, for it was rare that they were audience to their mother’s and Jon’s unease.

“Girls, since you two seem to be getting along, why don’t you spend some time together outside? I want to speak to Jon.”

The girls did not move. Sansa’s eyes went back and forth from Jon to her mother. Arya sent her older brother a suspicious, hesitant glance. Jon tried to smile for them. “Go,” he told them. “I will see you at dinner.”

When the girls left, Jon tried to make his room more presentable. “I apologize for the mess. Arya and I were playing and then Sansa arrived…” As Jon was about to flatten his sheets, he noticed one of Robb’s shirts resting underneath the furs. From a glance, there was nothing suspicious about them. If one were to investigate, however, they could see the spots of dampness, indicating a less than savory intention. Jon tried to hide it, but Lady Stark’s hawk eyes caught them in a second. “Is that one of Robb’s shirts?” She asked as if she did not already know the answer.

“Yes, he was…he changes in here sometimes.” All the time. The room was as much Robb’s as it was Jon’s. 

His mother’s warning came to mind. Jon thought about escaping, thinking of an excuse to leave Lady Stark’s vicinity but nothing came to tongue. She never visited him. They ran into each other in the halls; avoided gazes during their meals. For her to make an appearance in his bedroom, his and Robb’s sanctuary, was something he never prepared for. Jon folded the shirt and placed it on the side to hide the stain. “I’ll return it to him immediately.”

“It looks like it needs a wash.”

“I’ll wash it.” Jon said without thinking. The shirt was one of his favorites. He used it when he fingered himself, squeezing his cock with his dainty fingers and pressing his nose against Robb’s wears. He was a pervert of the highest degree and enjoyed every wrinkle on Robb’s expression when the older boy figured out what he had done.

“Very well,” Lady Stark agreed. Jon thought about offering her a seat, but that would be inviting her to stay. She saved him the trouble of speaking. “Thank you for that.”

Jon jumped.

“Sansa and Arya have antagonized each other since Arya learned her first word. Their father and I have tried to cull their bickering but we’ve had little success. I think they’ll listen to you this time.”

Jon remained speechless. Upon his silence, Lady Stark took the opportunity to continue with her original intention. “I wanted to speak to you about the tourney. Your father will have his moment, but I wished to make a few things clear about Robb.”

The mention of Robb’s name removed any nervousness from Jon’s body. He knew Lady Stark suspected their less than familial relationship; she certainly complained to Jon’s father enough times for the fact to be known. Yet without the approval of her husband, Lady Stark could do nothing to separate them. This tourney was important for Robb in regards to finding a worthy mate; Jon was an obstacle. It made sense that Lady Stark would make contact to keep him from being an issue. 

“Because the tourney is happening so soon after your ceremony, people will suspect that this is a ploy by Lord Stark to earn a profitable match for you.”  
“Father would never—”

“The South does not understand your father like you do,” Lady Stark interrupted. She continued as if she never heard the outburst. “They will suspect many things about you and your brother.” Jon looked down. He did not want Lady Stark to see him glaring.

“Regardless of how well Robb performs, he will be expected to mingle with the omega ladies and lords. I noticed during your ceremony that he was adamant about protecting your virtue.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“Well, while Robb is your older brother, I ask that you do not follow his example. You’ve said it yourself. The Starks have many enemies. There are those who would like to win the king’s favor and remove Lord Stark from his pedestal. Your mother has never been well-received in the southern court, either. There are tensions between him and the king.”

“King Baratheon is a child killer,” Jon muttered, reiterating what his mother used to say. Lady Stark gave him a sharp look.

“He is your king.”

Jon bit the inside of his cheek. “My mother says that a crannogman only bends the knee to a Stark. Robb is the only one who can sway my body.”

The statement alone was grounds for Lady Stark to strike him, burn his treasonous tongue, or send letters to her sister illustrating the sedition of the Neck. Jon cursed his forgetfulness. He forgot about her sister. Lady Lysa may report such treason to her husband, jeopardizing any plans he may have. There was a chance no one would take Lady Stark seriously, her accusations were high in his youth. Jon tried to clear his head. He needed to think clearly. He made a grave mistake and could only wait for the outcome.

Lady Stark was like steel. “Regardless, it would be best for the North if Robb is well-received. Others will be reluctant to approach him with an omega by his side, blood relations or not. So please keep your displays of affection reasonable.”

She was warning him not to scare off potential brides. Reason kept Jon from laughing. He wondered what it was like for her; to have sight in a crowd of blind men and be gagged in a room of deaf ears. No matter how many implications were made or the evidence in front of her, she could not proclaim her theories without smearing her son’s image. She could plead with her husband to separate them but he would never, not when all Lord Stark wanted was for his children to love each other.

“Robb will do whatever he pleases. I cannot stop him. I have no power,” Jon told her. He made sure his voice was soft and submissive—the opposite of his mother. He wanted to appease Lady Stark to prevent falling into this metaphoric lake, especially after he almost slipped off the ice.

The expression on Lady Stark’s face indicated that she did not believe him; yet, she did not contradict him, either. “Either way, I recommend you do not encourage such trespasses. There are eyes everywhere.”

“Yes, Lady Stark,” Jon agreed. He did not wish to argue on a matter he did not oppose; even if the advice came from a woman who hated him. When she made no movements to leave, he asked if she had other business.

Lady Stark pursed her lips. “Since Bran and Rickon are too young to travel, your father has decided to stay behind at Winterfell.”

“I see.” Jon’s disappointment was present but light. He knew his father did not care for the South and with Lady Stark’s presence, there was no need for two guardians.

“Perhaps, you should write to your mother. Have him keep your father company while we are gone?”

Jon blinked. The air sparked and the hairs on his back rose. He narrowed his eyes. “That is a kind offer, Lady Stark. But would that not be upsetting for you? To have my mother take your place while you are gone?”

“Hmm?” Lady Stark raised an eyebrow. The act was so delicate that her surprise appeared natural. Jon repeated the question.

“My lord husband desires it and as your father’s wife, his will is mine,” Lady Stark reminded. “Why should I play ignorant to his intentions? I have my pride, Jon. If your mother is to come, let it be done with my permission rather than my deception.”

Jon remained unconvinced. To avoid his interrogation, Lady Stark sighed, albeit dramatically. She explained her concerns. “Regardless of my partiality, I can no longer deny that you are a part of this family. The whole North knows of you and soon, so will all of Westeros. Bran,” A flash of annoyance appeared on Lady Stark’s face—she could not fake her sincerity this time, “is likely to be fostered in the Neck. It is time I stop being a bystander to the workings of Winterfell.”

Her words, though plausible, did nothing to assuage Jon’s suspicions. Their conversation was interrupted by the door. Robb entered.

Upon seeing her son, Lady Stark prepared to leave. “Think about what we discussed, Jon.” She planted a kiss on Robb’s cheek as soon as he came in. Robb watched the two warily. He bid his mother goodbye and locked the door when she left. Jon was thinking to himself. He barely noticed Robb when he sat on his bed and pulled Jon into his arms.

“What were you two talking about?” Robb asked. One of his hands slipped underneath Jon’s pants.

“Nnh…nothing. She…” Jon mumbled. “She was very kind.”

“Good.” Robb used his free hand to grab Jon’s face and pulled him into a kiss. “I’ve missed you.”

Jon could tell. Robb wasted no time removing Jon’s trousers. He placed Jon’s bare bottom on his lap and forced him to rub against Robb’s swelling cock. Robb attacked Jon’s neck, leaving blue bruises all over his skin. Robb’s hand seemed huge underneath Jon’s pussy. The Stark heir stuffed two fingers inside while the outline of his cock rubbed up against Jon’s ass. The sensation of Robb’s fingers combined with the near penetration had the younger boy leaking all over him. 

“You are so _tight_ ,” Robb grunted out. “It has been ages since we’ve seen each other.” Jon choked on his spit when Robb dug his fingers in deeper. Robb was relentless. When he felt Jon coming, he retreated in a single, fluid motion. The harshness of Robb’s digits being dragged out of his hole was too much for him.

“Robb!” He shouted as he came. 

Without warning, Robb shoved Jon onto his bed. He took off his ruined pants and revealed his aching cock, red and desperate for a hole to fill. He spread Jon’s legs and lifted up his hips.

“I cannot believe I’ve waited so long for this,” Robb groaned. He was about to lean down for a taste when a foot stopped him in his tracks. Jon’s pointed toes touched his forehead, warning him not to go further. Robb pushed it away. He went forward and the foot aimed for his chest, keeping their distance.

“Not funny,” he growled.

“Not joking,” Jon huffed. “We are not doing this now, hours before dinner where we can be interrupted at any time.”

“The door is locked.”

“So we should make our guest wait until your knot swells down?” Jon asked. “I assume you plan to knot me.”

“Of course.”

Jon gave him a sharp look. Robb glared. He moved forward despite Jon’s protests and shoved his cock against Jon’s pussy. “I’ve waited too long for this.” He was prepared to enter Jon at that moment, but Jon kicked him off. 

“That is not my fault,” Jon hissed. He tried to get up. Robb heard nothing but the rejection pulsing through his ears. He lunged onto the younger boy and pinned him down.

“If you think you are leaving this room without your holes gaping from a knot, you are mistaken. I want my cum leaking down your thighs and your belly full of my load. You are mine, Jon. I want you _now_.”

Robb shoved his fingers inside Jon’s ass and used them to anchor Jon onto the bed. The boy squirmed helplessly; he was reduced to nothing more than a pitting whore under his brother’s watch. He turned away to avoid his brother’s gaze.

“Robb…?”

“Yes, love?” The sweet address sounded cruel on Robb’s tongue. He was pumping his fingers in violently, not sparing Jon a second of reprieve.

“Ki…me…” Jon gasped out when Robb’s finger hit his prostate. His cock spurted out a thick line of cum. He choked back a sob as Rob ignored his orgasm and resumed his actions. He ignored Jon’s raw cock and his sloppy ass in favor of punishing Jon for his rejection.  
“What was that?” Robb leaned into Jon’s ear. “I didn’t hear you.”

Jon whimpered. “Robb…please…kiss me.”

If the boy was going to beg like that, Robb was going to knot before he was inside him. Robb grinned like a savage beast. He leaned down and gave Jon the kiss he deserved. Deep and powerful; he wanted to mark Jon from the inside. Jon opened up his orifice beautifully; Robb could not wait until his quim did the same.

Despite his initial reluctance, Jon became especially enthusiastic about kissing. He sucked and nibbled on Robb’s tongue like he was a treat. When it was time for Robb to get some air, Jon did not let go. He sunk his teeth into Robb’s lips.

“Umph!” Robb tried to pull back, but he could not get away from Jon’s mouth. He was forced to remove his fingers. Jon used the opportunity to push his brother off. The older boy tumbled backward onto the sheets. Jon straddled him to keep him still.

Shit, thought Robb when he saw the impact of Jon’s glare. He was going to get it now. “Jon—”

Jon punched him without hesitation. “Robb Stark, you are an ass!” He hit him again. Robb groaned; Jon was incensed; he was biting his lip to keep himself from yelling. Before he could throw another punch, Robb grabbed the back of Jon’s head and forced him into another kiss. This time, it was pure roughness; there were none of the façades of innocence as before. Jon tried to push him off him, but Robb had other plans. He wanted to fuck Jon, and he was not particular about which hole he got.

When Jon was released, the boy was breathless and weak-boned. His cock was twitching again. He was leaking everywhere; Robb was tempted to have a taste but decided not to push his luck. He waited until Jon dropped to his side and curled up under his arm.

“Jon—”

“Unless what comes out of your mouth is an apology, I don’t want to hear it.”

Fuck, Robb swore. He could hear the pout in Jon’s voice.

It made him want to fuck him even more.

“You are mine, Jon. I don’t have to apologize for taking my dues.”

Jon took ahold of Robb’s cock and squeezed. “Do you want to get hit again?”

Despite his manhood’s precarious position, Robb laughed. He pulled Jon into an embrace, ignoring Jon’s protest as he was accustomed to doing.

“If you continue to refuse me, I’m going to tie you up and keep you here,” Robb whispered. Jon shivered at the request.

“Robb…”

“Actually, I can see the merits of that proposal. I could keep you up here. A few hours of being tied up like a hog might work wonders your pride. Can you imagine yourself? All trussed up, on your back with your legs bent to your shoulders. The only thing you could see would be that cocklet of yours, dangling in front of your face. Hells, your pussy would be dripping into your mouth.”

“Robb, you cannot—!”

Robb tightened his hold when his brother tried to get out. He licked the shell of Jon’s ear. “You’d scream; I can already tell you’d make a lot of noise. I’d have to gag you. A blindfold would be required as well. I heard the sensations triple when sight is taken away.” 

Robb fingered Jon’s back entrance. The younger boy whimpered. “Would you like that, Jon? Would you like to be treated like my personal whore? My cum bucket for the rest of your life?” He pushed his pointer finger all the way in. “I’d like that,” Robb whispered. “I’d like to come back to my room after a long day of training and lectures and see my pretty boy whore, bloated and drenched with cum, a wet hole stretched out from the morning’s rut, and an ass spread open on a toy of my choosing.”

Jon could not help himself. He came, wetting Robb’s legs once more.

Robb took out his fingers from Jon’s ass and gave them a proper lick. Each ‘smack’ of the lips was accompanied by a smug smirk.

Jon used all his self-control not punch Robb a third time.

“You are a sadist,” huffed Jon. With shaky legs, he tried to get up. He was not surprised when Robb followed and joined them together once more. “Let me go, Robb. I have to get dressed.”

“Why? We were so close to enjoying ourselves.”

By the gods, was sex the only thing on this boy’s mind? “I need to clear things up with Theon. You interrupted us before I could, remember?”

“Theon is fine. I spoke to him. He will return to normal by dinner; I assure you.”

Robb’s confidence was astounding in all the worst ways. “The point is not that ‘he returns to normal, but he does not behave so recklessly in the future.” Jon sighed and grabbed his pants. After sniffing it, he concluded that it was not proper attire for a talk. He tossed it aside. “He is important for our plans. More than that, I am worried about him. He is our brother, even if he does not share our blood.”

Robb pressed his lips on Jon’s shoulder and delivered a chaste kiss. “Hopefully you do not love him as much as you love your brother.” Jon rolled his eyes. He felt Robb smile against his skin. “Though, I am not opposed to having Theon join us for a night.”

Jon paused. He bit down his agitation. “Oh? Is that something you want, my lord? Another omega to warm your bed?” He tried to sound nonchalant.

He failed.

Though Jon’s coolness could be seen as mockery, Robb could taste the jealousy on Jon’s skin. He relished in the rare, possessive display. While Jon was not immune to insecurity, his worries were always hypothetical. He never had to compete with another omega for Robb’s affection. Robb was never foolish enough to admit an attraction to other omegas.

Until now, that is.

“Theon cannot compare to your beauty, but it is hard not to stare when he shows off his body. He loves attention and what kind of man would I be to refuse him?”

“A man without a lover,” Jon warned.

Robb laughed into his ear. “He is a barely a shadow in my mind. You are my light. Although…” Robb twisted his little brother so that they were facing each other. He latched onto Jon’s nipple.

“Robb, stop it! You cannot keep doing as you please—!”  
Robb, predictably, did not listen. He opened his mouth and engulfed Jon’s nipples with his mouth. He used his tongue to play with the wet nubs, licking them until they were raw and swollen. Jon’s protests died into soft moans as he got into the habit. The young crannogman sunk his hand into Robb’s curls and urged him to continue. Suckling on Jon was one of their many secret pastimes; Robb loved feeding on Jon’s milk, and Jon could not stop indulging him.

After giving Jon a final lick, he kissed his little brother.

They parted, breathless.

“When you first came to Winterfell, you took a bath with Theon. I used to tug my cock, all alone in my bedroom, imagining what the two of you were doing behind closed doors.”

“We were bathing, you idiot—”

“I had this fantasy,” Robb interrupted. “Of you two together.” He licked the sweat off Jon’s chest. Jon shut his eyes and focused on his brother’s voice. “How you would straddle his face with your little hips and let his tongue pierce that tight pussy. You’re such a good boy, Jon, you’d return the favor by wrapping your pretty mouth over his cock and trying to stuff him down your throat.”

Robb sucked a hickey onto Jon’s waist. Jon gasped.

“You perverse—”  
“There were other times I imagined interrupting one of your shared sleeps. You two would be ready for me. You always are, Jon, and Theon would not need much convincing. You would give me a wonderful performance, wouldn’t you? Kissing a bit, nibbling on each other’s lips before testing your skills on my cock.”

Robb flicked his tongue on Jon’s clit. Jon gripped the sheets. “You…hah…think far too much of yourself…” He breathed out.

Robb chuckled. The vibrations of his laugh sent a minor quake against Jon’s cunt. He could feel Robb’s beard scrape against his lower lips. “I cannot wait to be inside you,” Robb rumbled against Jon. The sounds of squelching echoed in the room. The Stark heir delved into his feast.

Jon gripped Robb’s hair. He wanted to get lost in the feeling, but he remembered his plans for tonight. He could not let Robb's impatience ruin them. Using every ounce of his self-control, Jon took Robb’s hair and led him towards his mouth. He was gentle; the two met in a languid kiss. When they parted, Robb climbed on top of him. Before he could enter Jon, Jon asked him what he was most excited for.

“What?” Robb muttered.

“I asked: which hole are you most eager for?” Jon leaned back and spread his legs. His used right fingers to spread apart his pussy. “This one? Or…” He lifted up his hips to reveal his puckering hole. “This? Which one of my virginities will your take first, my lord?” Jon watched Robb’s pupils dilate.

“Fucking hells,” Robb whispered in awe. “You are going to be the death of me.” He reached out to test the elasticity of both. The choice was impossible. He would have to use a toy to get the other ready while he raped the first.

Jon responded by snapping his legs shut. Before Robb could protest, his younger brother shoved him off the bed. Jon crawled onto the floor like a preying cat. His head stopped at Robb’s crotch. He licked the slit and swallowed it whole in one gulp. Robb could see an indention in his throat. Before he could come, Jon removed his mouth. The bastard licked his lips and moved forward until his palms were on Robb’s chest.

“Ever since we’ve met, I have been waiting for you to enter me. I made plans for us.” Jon ground his hips against Robb’s chest. “Will you put my hard work to waste by taking me now? Can you not wait until tonight?”

Robb would rather have an anal dalliance with Ice. In the end, he submitted to Jon’s plea. “Tonight,” he swore, “I will only wait this evening. Otherwise, I am coming in your room the next morning and fulfilling my own promise.”

Jon did not care about the threat. As soon as he heard that he won, he could not hide his grin of triumph. Immediately, the seductress left, leaving behind a cheery nymphet who sought butterfly kisses and sweet snuggles.

***

At dinner, Arya and Sansa were considerably more amicable than before. Jon watched them with a loving smile. They argued a bit on the criteria of proper mealtime mannerisms, but there was no longer any contempt in their dispute.

Meanwhile, Rickon squirmed in his lap, trying to stab his thigh for more meat. Jon sighed and pinched his cheek for trying to throw his vegetables on the ground. “Don’t waste food,” Jon scolded. He got a piece of carrot and placed it against his lips.

“No!”

“Yes,” Jon countered. The child saw the resolution in his older brother’s eyes and stared at the tantalizing piece of steak on his plate. Jon held his ground. “Carrots first, meat second. I am serious, Rickon.”

The boy was about to refuse until their father said otherwise. “Eat your entire meal or do not eat at all. That includes dessert.”

The threat of losing his sweet privileges made Rickon turn a new leaf. He begrudgingly ate the vegetable. While he chewed, Jon placed a small kiss at the top of his head.

Robb glared.

“Perhaps it is time for you to enjoy your meal. Rickon must be getting heavy.”

“Am not!”

Jon took a sip of water. “I don’t mind. Between all of my siblings, I am given the least time to him.”  
Robb frowned petulantly. He took a vicious bite of meat. His hands were twitching; he was used to fingering his little brother during his meals. Even when he was exhausted from his lessons, he never missed a moment to get his fingers soaked with his brother’s honey. He moved his hand to the table and started tapping.

“Is there something the matter, Robb?”

“Huh?”

“Your cup is about to fall off the table,” Sansa pointed out. Robb glanced over at his vibrating palm and pulled back.

“Nothing, I’m just a bit restless.”

“Thinking about the tourney?” Ned suggested. He was nearly done with his meal.

“Hmm? Oh, right, of course.” He glanced over at Jon who was busy cutting up the rest of Rickon’s meal. He took a bite of his own dish. Robb watched the boy swallow; the way the bump went down his throat reminded Robb of a load of cum. “I cannot wait for the chance to use my lance.”

Jon choked. His coughing caught the worry of Rickon who tried to kiss him better. “I'm all right,” Jon muttered while wiping off a trace of saliva.

“Your first tourney is always exciting.” He paused. “But do not slack off on your duties as a brother. Make sure to keep an eye on your siblings while you are there. It will be hard, but you’ll be the head alpha so their care is your responsibility.”

Robb startled from the revelation. He had forgotten that by not coming, Lord Stark had placed Robb as the alpha representing the Starks. “Yes,” Robb coughed, a bit of sweat dripping down his forehead. “I will not disappoint you, father.”

Jon took a moment to grasp Robb’s hand. “You’ll be fine,” Jon soothed. “You were born for this.”

His assurance meant the world to Robb, who returned to his usual pride. “I will make sure the Stark name is revered.” He kissed Jon’s hand. “And make sure no harm comes to my beautiful brother.”

Jon took his hand back. He avoided Lady Stark’s knowing gaze and smiled in spite of the hairs rising on his back. “And your beautiful sisters,” he added.

“Yes, and my beautiful sisters.”

“You should use this event to the fullest,” Lady Stark interrupted. “You’ve never been so far south. I advise you to take the opportunity to mingle. You may find a friend or two.”

Arya scoffed. “I doubt those prissy lords want to deal with an actual northerner.”

“Arya!” Sansa scolded. “That was very rude! I hope you don’t plan on running your mouth there as you do here.”

Before Arya could retort, Jon agreed with Lady Stark. “We should all take advantage of our surroundings. You may be making more trips to the south in the future.” For marriage or for politics was left unspoken. He finished off his water and turned down the maid who offered to refill his cup. “Perhaps you should consider getting acquainted with the omegas there. They’ll no doubt be interested when they see your skill, and coupled with that face of yours, they won’t be able to resist,” he told Robb.

“Jealous, brother?” Robb teased.

Jon ignored him. Sansa voiced her own thoughts on the matter. “I hear the omegas there wear long dresses and perfumes from Essos. Do you think I can buy a bottle while I’m there?”

“You’ll have to ask father for the allowance,” Lady Stark told her.

As soon as she was given the advice, she turned to her father. The older man sighed. He agreed, of course. Though he did not want to spoil his children, he could not deny his daughter a small souvenir. “You’ll be allowed a single present for memory. Choose it wisely.”

Sansa kissed her father in thanks.

Meanwhile, Robb refocused his attention on Jon. Without warning, he tipped his remaining water onto Jon’s lap. Rickon gasped.

“Apologies,” Robb told them. He helped Rickon off Jon’s lap and stood him on the chair. One of the maids picked him up. Catelyn ordered them to get him new trousers.

“Will I still get dessert?” He whimpered. He did not want his trials of carrot eating to go unrewarded.

“Of course, my sweet,” Catelyn assured. “As soon as you get back.” The serving girl left immediately.

Without Jon’s shield, Robb attacked. He picked up his goblet and ran his hand up Jon’s thigh. His younger brother wore a dress—just as he demanded. Once up, he placed the cup on his table and returned his hand to its rightful position: three fingers deep in Jon’s hot cunt.

Jon pressed his thighs together. Robb settled down the delighted noise rising his throat.

Robb churned and churned until the butter was melting all over his skin.

***

Theon spent dinner in his room, tearing up parchments and rough drafts, wondering if there was a point to his efforts or if he was being played the fool. The quill shook in his hand as he tried to compose a message for his sister. If he pleaded with her to come, he would look desperate. She would think he was weak and following that train of thought, believe that the Starks were unable to take care of him.

At worst, she might try to take him home. He could imagine her now: “Theon has been your captive long enough; I want him home and away from you shit-eating wolves.”

Fuck, she might even start a war.

His sister’s dramatics was often overlooked due to her coolness at sea. She ate the meat she pillaged from farms and owned goods from the villages she ransacked. She fucked whoever she wanted whenever she wanted. He imagined she was having the time of her life, sucking on the tits of omegan women and playing with the cocks of younger men; a courtesy that belonged to Lord Balon Greyjoy’s heiress.

Despite her luxuries, Theon knew she had her hands full. She captained ships and led raids, steadied their remaining family when their father could not. He heard that his mother’s health was dwindling and she was often consumed with nightmares of her lost sons. Sometimes, he was compelled to write back. Little moments of his life he thought were entertaining. Asha rarely responded. When she did, her letters often ignored the original message. Once, he let Jon read one. The bastard’s assessment was that his sister did not want him to lose his culture.

“A lot of my messages are ones that describe the Neck. We write in the Old Tongue because the True Tongue has no letters. They do not want me to forget.” Jon paused afterward. Theon knew why.

The boy wanted to ask if Theon had forgotten his home.

Truthfully, the only thing keeping Theon’s responses alive was a single letter sent ages ago. Theon had been so frustrated by Asha’s sporadic replies that he decided to stop sending any messages altogether. For a single year, he refused to let the Iron Island raven fly.

Asha was livid.

She suspected that Theon was dead and they were keeping the knowledge from her to avoid a second rebellion. She threatened Lord Stark with a fleet. Had it not been for her age and Lord Stark’s forgiving nature, a war would have been on the horizon. Lord Stark told Theon to maintain his correspondence.

Theon refused.

“It is not fair that I must speak to her when she does not care enough to reply! I am not some sailor’s wife waiting for her husband to return. I refuse to give any love to someone who cannot offer it in return!”

No matter how many pleas and reasons, none of the adults could convince Theon otherwise. They wrote to the young Greyjoy heiress of the matter and when they received no response, they knew a relationship had been severed.

Robb would hear nothing of it.

Robb, whose only two values were honor and family, dragged his foster brother onto the chair and tied a pen to his hand. He commanded Theon to write.

“I refuse!” Theon screeched. He tried to stab the younger boy with a pen. “She hates me.”

Robb kept him still. “She doesn’t hate you. She loves you. Stop fighting!”

“No, she doesn’t! If she did, she wouldn’t be ignoring me for half the year.”

Robb sighed. “She is busy. And worried about you. You cannot keep rejecting her love. She is your sister.”

“She doesn’t care! How many times do I have to say it?” Theon settled down. “How do you know how she feels?”

“Because I’m an alpha,” Robb said confidently. Theon rolled his eyes. He was about to protest when Robb continued. “And so is she. She is an alpha whose main experience with omegas is her mother—driven mad by loneliness and lost. She is an alpha whose omega brother is thousands of miles away from her and she must constantly worry about his wellbeing because her only source of reliable information are the letters he sends her about his day. Letters she no longer receives.”

From this declaration, Theon sunk into his chair. Shame was blooming on his face.

“Understand that when she loses those letters, she is also losing her reassurance that you are not your mother.”

The words felt like lightning on the water. Theon wrote to his sister that night and received a letter three months later.

Theon sighed from the memory. He dropped his body over the desk in fatigue. He wondered if Asha would be so invested in his wellbeing if he wasn’t an omega; a creature to be cared for; weak and fragile. 

No, probably not, thought Theon. If he were an alpha, he would be the heir, and she’d be working harder than death to secure her position before his inevitable return. He’d be mocked by her as soon as he stepped on foot of the island. 

There were some perks to being an omega, he supposed.

The conclusion sparked an alternative option for Theon. Taking out a piece of paper, he hesitantly started his letter. Asha thought he was weak. He did not have to prove her wrong. She would come to her dear brother’s aid if he wished it. He thought of a plethora of excuses: the Starks did not understand him; he wanted his family at the wedding; it would make him happy for them to be reunited. Words and words poured out of his hand until his food became cold. 

When Theon finished his letter, a flush of pride ran through his spine. Asha was going to come, and she was going to bring an _armada_.

***

Right after they finished dinner, Jon grabbed Robb into a corner of the hall and kissed him ravenously. The aggressive action rendered Robb speechless. When he tried to respond, Jon quickly released him, heaving with swollen lips. Robb attempted to recapture them, only to be refused.

“Tonight,” Jon whispered.

“It is nightfall now,” Robb whined.

Jon bit his lip to keep him from laughing. “Tonight,” he repeated. “At midnight. Meet me in the council room where the Lord of Winterfell sits. I will be waiting for you.”

With a tender kiss to seal the promise, Jon spirited away. Without his presence, Robb’s ears were opened to the footsteps of his sisters. He could hear them being swooped into Jon’s arms.

Robb had no choice but to comply.

***

No one but the ghosts haunted Winterfell at night. Robb sat by the hourglasses like a madman, observing the harbor sands fall into a pile and tormented himself with visions of Jon’s squirming body until the last grain fell.

When all his tools were finished running, he walked down the dismal halls. He was silent, careful to avoid the watchful eyes of the guards. The maids were resting in their rooms. The Starks rarely called upon their servitude at this hour so they were able to rest freely. The guards’ minds were only half-awake.

When he reached the throne room— _the council room_ , he corrected, for the Kings in the North were no more and this hall was meant for a liege lord to receive his people, not a king to his subjects—his heart pounded. Anticipation skipped over his shoulders and danced to his toes. He took a deep breath. Jon laid behind these doors, he reassured himself. Jon was waiting for him, and he must not allow him to wait forever.

He opened the doors, and the drumming of his heart stopped into a defeating silence.

Before him, Jon Snow, son of Howland Reed and Eddard Stark, sat on the throne of Winterfell. 

And there was not a single article of clothing on him.

“Ah, fuck me.”

Jon laughed, breaking the tension with his lightness. Robb marched forward so that he could be by Jon’s side. As soon he reached his feet, he sunk down to his knees and kissed Jon’s feet.

“Shall I call you Lord Snow tonight?”

Jon licked his lips. He took away his foot and got up from his chair. Robb hardened when he saw Jon’s sweet honey trickling down his leg. He followed suit and stood up. When they kissed, Jon pressed himself against his older brother. He wrapped one of his legs around Robb’s hips. The Stark heir understood the offer and lifted his brother up. Jon wrapped his entire body around Robb. His weight was nothing more than a feather, but the seat was so close, and Robb realized this was his intention. Jon wanted to get fucked on the throne of Winterfell and Robb would obey his wishes. But Jon was about to be placed there; Jon stopped him.

“I did not leave the throne for the sake of returning to it.”

Robb sucked on his collarbone. That was his first mark of the night.

“You left to greet me. I am returning you to your rightful place.” They kissed again.

Jon bit his lower lip so that they would. He licked the side of Robb’s neck.

“The seat belongs to he who calls himself the King in the North.”

Robb stuck his fingers into Jon’s ass. It was tight, like how he left it in his bedroom. He knew Jon’s pussy would be looser after the abuse it suffered at dinner. Robb was not content with a simple message after being denied the way he was.

“Shall I call you King Snow, my grace?”

Jon could not help but smile. He gripped onto Robb even tighter and sunk deeper onto Robb’s fingers. Slowly, he began to ride the hand as if it were a cock. Robb grunted. He could feel Jon fucking his prostate without remorse.

“The only man who can sit on the Throne of Winter…” He huffed. “…Is a Stark. I am not a Stark.” With one solid movement, Jon shoved himself to the hilt on Robb’s fingers, resulting in his first orgasm of the night. Robb’s cock was in pain. His alpha instincts screamed at him to punish Jon for coming without permission. Instead, he drowned himself on Jon’s moans. The older boy whispered in his ear. “I want you to sit on the throne. I want to ride my king.”

What was a king who did not live by the will of his people? Robb moved forward and unceremoniously sat on the cold wood. Jon joined him by lifting up his hips so that he was removed from Robb’s fingers and seated on his lap. He rode him while his cock stuck through the fabric. Pre-cum leaked through. Jon wanted to taste it. He pulled on the drawstrings and released the appendage. He placed it in between his pussy lips and rubbed it.

“Centuries ago, before the dragon lords and the stag usurpers, the Starks ruled the North. They unified the kings through the blood of sex and cemented their kingdom on their bones. You are the heir to their rule. The bearer of many bloodlines.” Jon pressed downwards on Robb’s cock. His cunt opened the slightest bit, ready for the intrusion.

“Jon…” Robb choked out a gasp when he felt himself go deeper. His tip was almost in. Jon rolled his hips so that Robb churn the surface of his pussy.

“Tonight, I am going to do the same. I am going to crown you with my laurel of blood.”

With a deep breath, Jon pushed himself down in one, harsh move.

Robb let out a long-awaited guttered groan.

The presence of a cock caused Jon to gush out a river’s amount of slick. Robb’s cock stretched out his hole more than any of his toys. The heat was almost unbearable. He could feel the veins rubbing against his inner walls. So consumed by the feeling, Jon made the mistake of trying to leave. He managed to lift himself so that the tip was at the entrance but Robb refused to let him escape. As soon as the cold air hit his shaft, he sought to engulf himself in the tight heat once more. He grabbed Jon’s hips and forced himself all the way to the hilt.

“Robb!” Jon sobbed. “You’re tearing me inside out.” He bit into Robb’s shoulder when the older boy shoved a finger inside his ass to silence him. Robb could feel the wetness on his skin; he wondered if it was tears or drool.

“I have waited years for this moment. You said you were going to make me king. I want my crown.” Robb made himself comfortable. He steadily fucked into Jon’s cunt by lifting the smaller boy all the way to the tip and then slamming him down. A moan of pleasure met each thrust. Honey dripped out. Robb’s cock was getting drenched. “More, I want more,” Jon cried.

Robb chuckled. He was sure that tomorrow morning would be filled with stories of wayward ghosts and fearful apparitions. He refused to silence Jon, however. His moans were like hymns of worship. With Robb’s fingers punching his prostate and his pussy being pounded, there was no surprise when Jon spilled all over Robb’s chest. His pussy squeezed Robb’s cock.

“Fuck!” Robb swore. He shivered and dug as far as he could go. “Your body is grasping me so tightly. You feel so good, Jon.” Without warning, he released Jon’s hips so that the boy sank on his knot. If Jon thought he was stretched before, it was nothing compared to the bulge tearing him from the inside. Jon’s head fell back. No longer controlled by Robb’s hand, Jon started bouncing relentlessly, fucking mindlessly on Robb’s cock until he came. The knot was wrecking his cunt. He knew tomorrow it would be nothing but a gaping hole. Robb made an effort to pitch deep inside Jon; far enough that he could feel his cock through Jon’s stomach.

The taste of Robb’s never-ending cum was as familiar to Jon as water. He came a second time thinking about all the times he choked on its thickness. He fantasized about the way the cream stuck to his throat, making his voice rough and guttered. The sensation of Robb’s cum inside him, however, was entirely new. It coated Jon’s insides and mixed in with Jon’s essence. Though his mind said otherwise, his pussy clenched around the cock. He wanted to milk him dry. He wanted to be bred. 

Despite coming, neither of them wanted to stop or separate. The slightest twitched turned into another round of lovemaking, and the mildest quiver was followed by an orgasm. The two of them took advantage of their youth. It took the l of dawn for them to return to their rooms. Robb carried Jon through the halls; it seemed like they were more guards than ever before.

Once inside their room, Robb tucked Jon into bed. The boy passed out. Like any good alpha, Robb wiped off his sweat and licked both of Jon’s holes clean. With perverse pleasure, he pressed a hand against the swollen belly. The slightest push caused the cum to pour out like a dam. He imagined filling Jon’s womb with a magnitude of princes and princesses. Robb’s cock twitch. He undid his pants again and climbed on top of his brother. He figured another round wouldn’t hurt either of them.

***

Before morning struck, Jon woke up to the feeling of Robb inside him. The young man was underneath the covers, mouth on his chest; cock plugged into Jon’s cunt. He was finished. Jon closed his eyes. Brushing a hand through Robb’s hair, Jon wondered how he should prepare for his next heat. He’d be lucky if Robb was only twice as vigorous during a rut. More wetness dripped out of his hole. Robb’s cock was not enough to keep everything inside. Jon moaned when Robb shuffled in his sleep, his knot hitting one of Jon’s special spots. Jon tried to adjust to the size but failed. Finally, he gave up and went back to bed. When they woke up, Jon was going to have a talk with his king about knotting him in his sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for enjoying this chapter.  
> A lot of people have been concerned that this story was being discontinued. Rest assured, I am not abandoning this story and have no plans to do so. I am just busy. I am busy and tired and more than a bit overwhelmed. I don’t want to update for the sake of updating because I have done that in the past and have lost interest in stories because I was unsatisfied with the work I was producing.  
> I will try to update when I can but I can no longer promise regular chapters until March when everything is settled with my move and work.  
> I will, however, be writing an extra piece to explain the alpha/omega dynamics of this universe, including the physical differences between male omegas and female alphas, as requested by Adhara Snow. It’s too long to explain in a note so I figure I make a separate part for this story. If you have any questions about the universe, ask them now. I will be explaining inheritance, anatomy, mating biology, and the current statuses of the Starks, the Reeds, and other players in this story. But if there’s a high request for a certain family, I will do that as well.  
> Also, because I know this will become a concern, but Theon and Robb will not be a thing. Robb was just trying to make Jon jealous.  
> Sorry for the long note. Happy Friday the 13th!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a lot of smut in this chapter. Half of it was not planned. I wrote this chapter in February and my first instinct was to bombard the first 6000 words with smut.  
> Warnings: Threesomes, Moresomes, half-sibling incest, underage, twins, rough sex, infidelity, please warn me if you see a tag I should have placed.

The Northern party joined at Barrow Hall to collect their steeds. Lady Dustin was generous with her loans; she loved her nephew dearly and offered the Bolton heir her finest horse—a black stallion with a callous temperament and the thickest thighs of his team. He was trained to ride the frosted fields of Northern mountains and race the snow coated terrains. Riding the southern plains would not compare. For the first time since they met, Theon saw Domeric smile.

For propriety’s sake, Robb was allocated the next choice. No matter what, his selection would be amongst the finest in the North. Despite her indignity to the Starks, Lady Dustin refused to let her father’s name be besmirched. Until the day he dies, there would be no other who can claim the title of the North's greatest horse breeder. Robb walked up to the large beasts—they were tussling in place—too well trained to make a commotion, but their animal natures were impossible to overcome. In the middle of the harras was a white stallion as unwavering as The Wall. When Robb drew near, he straightened his form and stood at attention. His composure was an example for the colts on the other side of the stable. When the other horses caught the direction of Robb’s attention, they, too, sought to imitate such poise.

“What do you think, Jon?” Robb asked. His brother was a mere step away. The bastard child came closer until Robb was able to wrap his arm around his waist. He pressed his lips against Jon’s ear. Jon relished in Robb’s hot breath. He managed to spare a glance at the patient steed before giving his opinion. “Certainly not the most impressive creature but without a doubt the most dignified.” Robb chuckled when Jon sunk his face into the scruff of his neck. “He is a creature worthy of a king.”

Jon’s fingers played with the drawstrings of his brother’s pants. Desperate to be alone, Robb thanked Lady Dustin and ignored the disgust she displayed when he slipped his hand underneath Jon’s furs. She did not concern him. No one would trust the words of a wolf-caller. When he was outside, he took Jon to his tent so that they could wait the rest of the selection in peace. Sansa and Arya attempted to see their half-brother, but Robb prevented their entrance. “Jon might be coming down with a chill,” he told the girls. “You are still young. We cannot allow him to infect you two.”

“What about you?” Arya asked; suspicion indoctrinated into her tone. Though the youngest of their party, she was already beginning to suspect that Robb’s excuses were attempts to keep Jon to himself. She was not wrong. “Should you not maintain your health for the tourney?”

Robb’s eyes narrowed. “I am older than you. My body is sturdier.”

“Not that much older,” Arya muttered.

Robb refused to indulge her. He closed the blinds on their tents and ignored their protests until they went away. When he turned around, he saw Jon laying on the bed. He was rubbing his entrance through his pants. Robb laughed and walked over to the bed. The older boy climbed on top of his brother and covered Jon’s hands with his own.

“Is there something wrong, little brother?”

Jon winced when Robb pushed against his entrance. He was still clothed. Jon’s back arched and he thrust his pelvis up to Robb like an offering. Unable to resist, Robb undid the ties that kept Jon’s pants together. His eyes followed the bare flesh that led to an open slit stuffed with a wooden phallus. Robb undid his trousers. Ever since Robb discovered the joys of his brother’s cunt, it became unbearable to keep his cock dry. He was an alpha and alphas were entitled to their mate’s wet holes whenever they pleased.

Jon screamed into the sheets when Robb removed the object from his cunt. He felt empty without the toy. He gasped when Robb stuck his fingers inside. Robb gave an approving noise. “Hopefully, you’re loose enough for me.” Robb stuffed his tip in. Jon could not walk with an object as big as Robb’s manhood. They decided on a smaller phallus. Jon regretted their decision when the tip of Robb’s cock entered him. He shuttered when the intrusive object started wrecking his soft little cunt.

“Gods, that’s good. Keep clenching; I want to feel you around me.”

Jon and Robb fucked the entire night. They missed dinner, and when a guard came to check on them, Jon was already sleeping. He faced the side of the tent while Robb was upright, going over his notes. Robb told the man that neither he nor Jon had an appetite. Robb did not mention he'd already stuffed Jon’s belly with cum. That hardly seemed appropriate.

The guard lingered to inform Robb that half of the party will be leaving tonigh so that they could set up the tents at the tourney. “Lady Jyana suggested it. We’ll be operating on the difference of a half-day. The first party will stop in the Neck while the second party will rest outside it. If Jon would like to visit the Neck, he should leave now.”

Robb frowned at the suggestion. Without hesitating, he told the guards: “It has already been decided that when we return, Jon will be staying in the Neck while my family resides at Riverrun. I will not be parted from my brother until then.”

The guard accepted his message and left. Robb returned his attention to his slumbering brother. The thought of their brief separation was unbearable. He slipped underneath the covers and indulged in a little snack. Jon’s ass was only used once tonight. Robb moved his tongue inside and started lapping up the slick Jon’s body produced. Omegas were like that; they were eager for fuckings whether they knew it or not.

***

Lord Howland was not present for the first party's arrival. His daughter and son sat on their makeshift thrones—two pillows woven with pickerelweed and stuffed with leaves. Benjen Stark was beside them; the quintessence of a reluctant lord that did his job well but without joy. Instead of tents, he offered the crannogs for safe dwelling—there were too many beasts within the Neck, and the lands were always moving. The men they slept next to tonight may not be there in the morning, having drifted to farthermost regions of the Neck.

“The Neck is filled with willing hosts. They are all eager to provide accommodations.”

After making the announcement, Benjen whispered something in his daughter’s ear. The little alpha ran to a nearby doorway and brushed the vines aside. If their exclusively alpha party had not made their decision, it was made for them when Meera revealed the throng of thralls. At least a dozen omegas were standing before them, dressed in hems that reached the height of their cunts. Flashes of pink teased them from underneath their skirts. Little droplets of slick ran down their thighs and threatened to make a puddle on the floor. Beneath their thin clothes were swinging breasts, made visible by the sweat of the swamp. Some of them decided that their chests were better left bare. The room became overwhelmed with the stench of arousal.

“Lord Umber,” Lady Jyana addressed. Her composure was second to none. “I believe you remember Lord Ryon and Lord Cley of House Fenn.”

Two men walked forward. They were the eldest of the group and beautiful beyond words. Though they were twins, one of them had his blond hair shaved off to one side and wet lips meant to be stretched. The other kept his hair long and in a braid; his eyes were half-lidded; as if prepared for a bedding.

“Lord Umber,” the braided one spoke. “We are honored to have you with us again.” He entangled his fingers with his brother and waited for an answer. Watching them press against each other resurfaced the bulk of Greatjon's fantasies. His erection was ready to rip through his pants. His son, Smalljon, looked back and forth, before concluding that whichever crannog his father rested in was not the crannog he was to reside.

“It has been a long time.” Lord Umber did not take much to recover. He walked towards them, puffing out his chest to display his muscles. Some of the crannogmen pushed their thighs together. They were like sluttish colts—he doubted their ability to walk with all the aching in their cunts. Lord Umber laughed. Without warning, he pulled the meeker Fenn into a kiss. The lords gasped, scandalized and aroused by their display. Smalljon groaned; he was not in the mood to watch his father rut a stranger.

With great reluctance, Greatjon let go of his prize. “How long has it been since you've been fucked raw?”

Lord Cley was still trying to regain his breath. “Fifteen years,” he answered. The way his short hair framed his heart-shaped face made his sweetness more distinct. He leaned in for more, but Lord Umber redirected his focus to his older brother. Cley whimpered to catch his attention—an instinctive response for preening omegas. He scolded himself immediately. Lord Umber was a fair man. He wanted to make sure both twins received his affection.

“Fifteen years and not one visit,” accused Ryon. Though he pretended not to be as ruined by the virile alpha, the flush on his face said otherwise. “Did we not please you? It was our first time entertaining a guest and one so… _large_ at that. We simply must have been a disappointment.”

“Not at all,” Lord Umber denied. His confidence surged; he relished in the envy of his fellow lords. “I could think of no finer hole— _host_.” Lord Umber chuckled at his gaffe. “Before we are reacquainted, allow me to introduce my eldest son and heir: Jon. I call him Smalljon.” 

Smalljon Umber reluctantly stepped forward. Commotion fluttered throughout the crowd. Though he was beneath his father in height, his stature was one that mimicked mountains. He was enormous. Their maester predicted that he would one day tower over his father.

Three months from his twentieth birthday, the heir of the Last Hearth was hardly a novice when it came to bedding omegas. His father encouraged him to wet his cock whenever the opportunity arose. To his dismay, there were more omegas that feared his manhood than those who were eager for a taste. In the Neck, that was not the case. While Smalljon was prepared to battle any alpha, he was not armed for the beasts before him. The crannogmen were overwhelmed with thirst. Their eyes were savage as they assess the prey before them.

“Perhaps my grasp of your language is weak,” Cley stated. He stepped forward and pressed his palms against Smalljon’s chest. He shivered. “He is not small.”

Lord Umber chuckled. “A term of endearment.” He groped Ryon’s bottom. The younger man released a shrill of pleasure. “My brother says he is bound to grow even bigger than me.”

“He will be bigger than you?” Cley gasped. His crannog brethren mumbled out their disapproval. It was not fair that the Fenns housed two giants in their home. 

Cley agreed, though his reluctance was evident. “Unfortunately we cannot house the two of you. Our crannog would sink.”

A few of the waiting omegas stepped forward to offer their homes. Ryon stopped them. It was selfish of him, but he wanted the first taste to remain in the family.

“We have children!” he reminded everyone. “Would you like to meet them, Smalljon?”

The omegas stepped back. They remembered the rules. The Fenns claimed priority over the Umber cocks.

“You have children?” Lord Umber asked. The surprise was evident.

“I have a son and Cley is the mother of twins. A boy and a girl. They are all omegas.” Ryon licked his lips. “They blossomed this year. They have never been touched, either. I have taught them a few things, but they are anxious to learn pleasure from an alpha.”

“How old are they?” His father asked—unable to shake the gnawing in his gut.

“Fourteen,” Cley answered. He sounded so proud, unaware of Greatjon’s growing dismay. “And they are the most precious creatures in the world. You will not regret having them. They are at home, preparing dinner. If we leave now, I can tell them to make another plate and set up dwellings in one of the spare crannogs.” He was beaming with excitement.

Smalljon hardened at the prospect. To his surprise, his father appeared reluctant. He could tell the man wanted to protest and Smalljon, for the life of him, could not understand why. Throughout their journey, his father boasted of the fine selection of bodies—all willing and tight. “Nothing like the whores in a brothel,” Greatjon cheered. He thought his father would be throwing him at the offer.

When Smalljon admitted no protest, the twins accepted their victory. Greatjon was dragged to the waiting crannog where his cock would be slicked up with oils and sunk into their cunts. Lord Cley walked towards Smalljon and announced that he would send for him once everything was finished. “I hope you do not mind waiting. It is short notice and we must prepare for your comfort.”

“If I took him in, there would be a meal and a bed ready,” muttered one of the crannogmen. Cley glared at her. She pouted defiantly. Cley returned his attention to Smalljon and requested his patience. Before he left, he told his fellow omegas that they could partake in him as much as they pleased— _after_ their children received their first load.

Smalljon wondered if he would have any say in the matter. Judging by the hopeful resignation on the creeper’s faces, he guessed not. “You said there were three of them?” He asked instead.

Cley smiled. “Yes. I hope they treat you well.”

If they were half as beautiful as the Fenn lords, Smalljon would not care. Once the matter was settled, the rest of the alphas awaited their hosts’ command. Their cocks were straining through their pants.

Lady Jyana decided to put them out of their misery. “The journey must have made you weary. I trust my good brother has already set the housing arrangements.” She turned to Benjen for confirmation.

The acting Lord of the Neck said something in the Old Tongue. Without hesitation, the crannogmen dived into the group of alphas. Some did not wait to leave Greywater Watch before removing their guests’ clothes. The alphas were mistaken when they thought they were presented with a feast. Tonight, it was them who provided the meal. 

***

If Greatjon were a better man, he would have marched to the neighboring crannog and upheaved his son from the blasphemous breeding that was to occur. The Fenns were not motivated to deceive him on the matter of paternity. They confirmed that it was Greatjon’s seed that settled in their stomachs fifteen years ago. Lord Umber could not hide his dismay. Empathetic to his distress, Cley and Ryon sought to alleviate his worries.

“Of course, we will not ask you to claim them!” Cley’s fingers picked up a piece of fried fish and slipped it past Greatjon’s lips. The crappie melted in his mouth and the freshness of garlic and cayenne frolicked on his tongue. Cley licked the crumbs off his face and retrieved a piece of steamed okra. Greatjon opened his mouth. Though he loved his son, Smalljon’s soul was not worth the Neck’s luxury.

“We understand how your people view children outside of wedlock. We bear you no ill-will, Lord Umber. If anything, we are grateful for your gifts to us,” Ryon added as he massaged the giant’s cock. Ryon was pleased to see that the magnitude of his manhood had not shrunk with Ryon’s growing age. He was bigger than Ryon’s arm. “Do not feel obliged to adopt our sweetlings if it is not your wish. A child should be a blessing, not a burden.”

Cley poured more wine into Greatjon’s glass. More mead would weaken his resistance. After Greatjon took a gulp, Cley captured his lips and Ryon engulfed his massive erection. The double assault took away the last of Greatjon’s reservations.

While Ryon desired another child, Cley was content with his twins. He separated from the Umber lord and prepared his ass. Lord Umber watched with keen interest as Cley worked in each finger to the knuckle. His erection grew in response and stretched out Ryon’s throat. Ryon choked. He tried to release Lord Umber’s cock—an unacceptable act, for Lord Umber responded by slamming Ryon’s head against his balls and forcing his entire cock down his throat. Ryon’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. Lord Umber lifted the younger man’s head so that he could push it to the hilt. Before long, Ryon’s throat imitated a sleeve, letting Lord Umber use him as he pleased. As a reward for his service, Greatjon released a bear’s share of cum inside his body. The bulbous head, in the middle of a knot, sealed most of the cum inside Ryon’s throat. The remains of the load seeped out of his mouth, bulging out his cheeks and dripped to the floor.

Cley could not help himself. The sight of his brother’s ravished throat caused him to cum. With ragged breaths, he crawled over to Lord Umber and joined their mouths again. He loved the heightened intimacy of kissing more than his brother did. Lord Umber brought his large hand on Cley’s bottom and replaced the fingers the younger man put there.

The size of the man’s thumb alone was equivalent to some omega cocks. Two fingers were enough to split him apart. Cley whimpered, and the sound did wonders to Greatjon’s cock. It twitched and prepared for another round in whatever hole was willing. Ryon, whose mouth was still recovering from its brutal use, let out a little gasp of approval. His cunt ached, and Cley’s asshole mirrored the sensation. They were twins after all. Ryon crept onto Lord Umber’s lap before his brother had the chance. He reminded Cley of their promise.

“Me first,” Ryon rasped out. It hurt to speak. “You promised I could have another child. Alpha seed is most potent at the beginning.”

“He has plenty of seed,” Cley pointed out. He nonetheless agreed to his brother’s demands—it was a duty as an older brother to make sure Ryon received everything he wished. Besides, Ryon was right. Cley was fortunate to have twins on his first try; Ryon deserved another babe to keep him happy.

There was never enough preparation for a giant’s cock. Ryon made due with his honey and fingers. Lord Umber was nothing if not a virile alpha. He spent his youth massacring soldiers and spent his lordship slaughtering wildlings escaping the Wall. He was more robust than alphas half his age. Without hesitance, he grabbed the Fenn’s hips and forced himself in, balls deep.

Ryon swore in his native tongue. “Big! You’re so big! I’m getting split apart!” He screamed. Lord Umber understood nothing and even if he did, he would not stop. Lord Umber lifted him up so that he was pounding him against the floor. The plates on their table shook and threatened to fall. Cley saw the outline of his cock press against Ryon’s stomach and moaned. Umber was too big for them. 

Not that his brother cared, thought Cley, as he watched his brother get violated from the inside out. Ryon was getting fucked without remorse. Rather than worry about the way his twin was getting impaled, his cock twitched with satisfaction. They were mirror images of each other, coupled with their connection; it was like he was getting fucked himself. Cley bit his lip as his pussy quivered and shake from the phantom intrusion. He slipped his hand downwards and tried to quell the ache pulsing through his body. He thought of son and daughter and wondered if he should reconsider his plans for another child. Surely, his babes would not mind another brother or sister to dote on. Oh, and if it was an alpha this time…

Cley came at the suggestion.

Greatjon used the two of them for the rest of the night. They were grateful for each other—when one twin needed rest, the other sacrificed their body for pleasure. By the time Greatjon was sated, both omegas were long passed out.

The food was cold but edible. He grabbed a plate of crayfish and walked outside to taste the air. The swamps were humid—even at night. He had been warned against traveling alone in the Neck but Umbers cared little for words of caution. He would not impose on his guests any longer than he already had and there were plenty of omegas in the Neck eager to be ravaged. During his nightly excursion, he came upon another crannog—this time, there was a small home on top of it. He did not bother to wonder about the inhabitants and simply walked inside. 

Fate was an entity with humor.

His son laid before him, resting with five omegas by his side. His cock was buried inside a slumbering girl of fair complexion and dark brown hair—much like his own. He sighed. The sound rumbled through the quiet dwelling and woke his ever alert son up. Like the warrior Greatjon raised him to be, the young man instinctively grabbed a nearby dinner knife and prepared for battle. When he saw his father, he groaned. The girl holding him threatened to wake. She mumbled Smalljon’s name and adjusted herself on his cock. Greatjon briefly heard the approval for Smalljon to continue before the girl returned to sleep.

Greatjon kicked his son to fully revitalize him. “Get up,” he ordered.

Smalljon, with no small reluctance, removed the sweet girl from his lap. Ignoring her whimper was no small feat. The heir to the Last Hearth could feel his resentment grow as his cock touched the open air. Quickly dressing, he followed his father outside.

“Had your fun?” His father asked. He tried to sound like an authoritarian; he failed.

Smalljon raised an eyebrow. “There are five freshly fucked omegas in that house. I had more than fun.”

Lord Umber let out a laugh that resonated through the swamp. Smalljon could hear the rustling within the dwelling. “I thought you were given three.”

“They brought friends.” Smalljon pretended to be unaffected. His father knew better—his son was ready to bust a nut in pride for having fucked so many nubile beauties. “I was doing them a kindness.”

Lord Umber laughed—harder and louder this time. He almost entirely forgot what his original intentions were. A head of gold popped up from their shanty home and Lord Umber remembered the chill from earlier. Memories of Greatjon’s wartime celebration returned in the form of a doppelgänger. He could only stare.

“Jon?” The child called, voice as melodic as a kitten’s mew. He seemed surprised by the elder Umber’s presence but did not remain shaken enough to ignore his pleasantries. “I thought I heard voices. You must be Lord Umber.” There was no other man he could be. “I am Lonnel Fenn.”

He did not bother with a handshake and merely pressed his body against Smalljon’s arm, as if shielding himself from danger. His innocence was contradicted by the knife in his palm. When Lonnel saw the direction of Lord Umber’s gaze, he did not falter. The honeyed child smiled and showcased the dagger as if he were a child with a toy. “These lands are treacherous to those who do not know how to guide the crannogs. You could get hurt.”

Smalljon scoffed at the suggestion. He patted the boy’s head. “I believe we are well-equipped.”

Lonnel smiled like his mother—as if each tooth guarded a secret. Lord Reed had the same smile. Lonnel hummed and let go of his partner. “If you are sure. But please return to bed soon.” Lonnel pressed his face against Smalljon’s bicep and inhaled the sex-drenched odor. He sighed as if experiencing a dream before leaving them to their business. 

Lord Umber could not help but stare. 

Smalljon was laughing this time. “If you’d like a taste, I doubt he would protest.”

The suggestion alarmed Greatjon. He laughed to hide his discomfort. “I am quite sated.”

“When I was a boy, I watched you kill a dozen wildlings and not even then was your bloodlust sated.” Smalljon sighed. There was a pause; he asked if it was because of their blood relation.

Greatjon stopped laughing then. A silence passed between them before his father asked when he made the discovery. There was no shame in his confession. He even chuckled once he believed the charade done with.

“Mara— _your daughter_ —wondered why she was not bigger. Lonnel said that ‘their blood was too strong to be swayed by mortals, even giants.’”

“You stuck your cock in them? Even with this knowledge?”

“If they do not care, why should I?” Smalljon loosened his britches to prepare for his return. “They know the old gods better than we do.”

As a father, Greatjon was inclined to disagree. His protests sounded false. Pleasure was so hard to find in the barren North. He could not squander his time on worthless sins. The lord let out a boisterous laugh and bid his son a pleasurable evening. Smalljon was right. The creatures of the Neck need not adhere to the morality of men. 

***

They were packing up their final campsite when Robb dragged Jon off to the woods. Ser Rodrik made Robb promise that when they got to the Reach, his full attention would be on the tourney. Jon agreed with the vow. While the North was accustomed to their effusive behavior, the same could not be said of the South. Robb’s reputation would be cemented in his appearance at the tourney and Jon was adamant about keeping him respectable.

Robb was not as concerned.

The two were secreted in a small corner of the woods, several paces from their campsite and hidden by a collection of boulders. Robb trapped Jon against one of the trees. Jon wrapped his legs around his older brother’s waist and bit into his shoulder to silence his moans. Robb was slamming into his ass with pleased grunts and no signs of restraint.

“Fuck, you feel so good!” Robb rolled his hips and snapped forward again. Jon was well-trained at this point; he knew how to clench his hole so that his tightness heightened. Robb’s fingers dug into his hips. “Gods, you’re fucking tight. It feels like I’m going to break you…each time, I think I’m going to split you apart. Let me…” Robb started rutting wildly just then. He pounded and pounded so hard that Jon had to let go out his shoulder.

“Feels so good,” Jon gasped out. He wanted a release so badly. He bounced on Robb’s cock, meeting each thrust with a grind of the hips. Robb’s balls were hitting his skin so hard it bruised. Jon tried to lift up his hips to ease Robb in deeper. Robb responded by thrusting his growing knot all the way in. He lost himself to the pleasure of a good knot-fuck, shoving in and out without remorse. His knot swelled up to prepare for release. Without warning, Robb drowned Jon’s prostate with his cum. His bulging knot was shoved against his brother’s sweet spot. Jon whimpered as he delivered his orgasm and clung to Robb with their sweat as adhesive.

Weakened from his mating, Jon draped over his brother’s body for support. The older boy responded by leaning against the tree. Jon relished in the feeling of Robb’s form—the weeks of training made his body hard. He was bigger and he loved using his newfound strength to his advantage. The omega in Jon flourished from the frequent manhandling. As much as he enjoyed the change, he grew increasingly bitter of the troubles such attractiveness presented. As soon as they entered the southern plains, Robb was the target of much attention. Jon was not surprised by the number of omegas offering their services to such a fine lord, nor could he blame them. With the exception of the crannogmen, Northerners tend to be larger than their southern counterparts, having more direct links to the First Men. Their statures gave them an animalistic appeal—promising a thorough and rough breeding. Coupled with Robb’s noble air and fine features, he was considered prime estate in the omega community.

The thought made Jon nauseous.

Jon tilted his head upwards for a kiss. Robb complied with a pleased noise. They spent a good amount of time kissing while Robb deflated. After a while, Robb heard someone calling for them.

“It’s Dacey,” Jon murmured when they separated. “She’s coming closer,” Jon added.

Robb grimaced. He shifted his position. His knot deflated enough to get out but he could not help but stretch Jon’s body when he left. The younger boy let out a shrill of pleasure. It was enough to get him hard again.

In record time, the two attempted to look presentable. They left their haven and encountered Dacey in minutes.

“Are you two slacking off while the rest of us do the work?” Dacey growled.

Jon blushed, ashamed of his negligence. He was about to apologize when Robb spoke out. “We wanted some time to ourselves. There’s no telling how the southerners are going to receive Jon and I’ll be too busy to watch out for him. A good brother should make sure his siblings are taken care of.”

“A good heir knows his duty is to be with his men. Just because you’re to be the Lord of Winterfell does not mean you can pass off your responsibilities to your lesser lords. We are not servants.”

“We’re sorry—,” Jon began. He was cut off again.

“You’ve been a mood for a while,” Robb accused.

Dacey’s eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been upset since we’ve separated into two parties.”

“I am upset because the lord I am expected to swear fealty would rather rut his brother than do his job.”

“Careful, Mormont.”

She did not miss a beat. “There’s a stain on his pants.”

The accusation burned into Jon’s gut. He knew they were too reckless. He should have asked Robb to keep his distance. He was about to beg for Dacey’s silence when Robb, the calmest he’s ever been, countered with his own cruelty. 

“Perhaps your desperation for your good mother has made you see things,” Robb sneered. Dacey froze. The insinuation was as obvious as it was scandalous. Jon tug at his brother’s sleeve.

“We should go,” he pleaded. There was nothing that drew the eye more than the sight of two alphas quarreling in front of an unmated omega. He did not need this to be the day of revelations.

“You go,” Dacey told him; her voice was on edge. “I will have words with your brother.”

Jon eyed the sword by her side. She was taller and older than Robb though she lacked his bulk. Her people were hard warriors. Robb may have received more varied training than her, but that meant nothing without the will for execution.

When she saw that Jon did not move, she continued. “Jon, I am a steadfast northerner. I would never dream of hurting a Stark. Please, pack your stuff so we may leave.”

Robb nodded his reassurance. At last, Jon squeezed his brother’s arm and left them alone. When he was out of sight and ear, Robb sighed.

“You promised you would keep our secret,” Robb reminded her.

“Forgive me, but I suspect Jon already knows he is having an affair with you.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Well, you are not particularly discreet,” Dacey defended. “Or else I would not have caught you two at Barrow Hall.” That would be the last time she ever did the unrequested kindness of bringing dinner to a spoilt brat. “How do you know about my feelings for Jyana?”

“I didn’t.”

“What?” Dacey hissed.

Robb raised an eyebrow. “I suspected something was amidst when you accepted our relationship. I watched you. I saw the way you looked at her and the way she looked at you.” He shrugged. “I made a guess.”

“You made a fucking guess!” Dacey kicked a tree. She groaned. Her foot pulsed with pain. She punched a rock. She swore and cussed—she did everything but cry. When she was done letting out her frustration, she sat down, heaving.

“She is old enough to be my sister.” The Mormont heir’s tone was filled with injustice. “We are seven years apart. My father had lived over two decades before she was born.” 

“Some alphas marry below the age of their children.”

Dacey shook her head. “I was compatible with her—and so was my father. Can you imagine the torture? For almost a decade, I’ve listened to my good mother moan while my father plows her into her bed. I watched her body swelled with my sister, and I used to wait for her to stop playing with my siblings— _the younger ones call her mother_ —so that we could be alone.”

Robb tried to imagine losing Jon to another alpha. He could not. There was too much blood whenever the arrangement was hypothesized. 

“Does she know?”

Dacey nodded. “I told her the night of Barrow Hall—when she suggested we split up into parties and said she wanted me to stay with you. You ungrateful twat. I was incensed. And stupid enough to confess.” Dacey sighed. She leaned against the tree that Robb and Jon were once fucking on. Robb had the good sense to keep this to himself. “She said I was irrational. And as a kindness, she would forgive my confession. When I tried to kiss her, she stopped me.”

“I’m sorry.” Robb felt for her strife. The qualms of unrequited love were unmatched by all.

Dacey shook off his pity like a beast. “Don’t. You’re one of the lucky ones, Robb.” She stood up and stepped forward. “But you won’t stay lucky if you continue to act so foolishly.” Dacey struck him on top of his head. "Is your cock made of magic? Is Jon not supposed to put some sense into you?”

“He tries,” Robb admitted. “But he cannot refuse me, nor would I allow him to if he did.”

Dacey approved of the admission more than she cared to admit. “If I said the same, Jyana would hate me.”

“I would not allow Jon to do that either.” Robb chuckled. “Jon is mine. He has been mine since he was born. And even if he wanted to, I would not let him tell me ‘no.’”

***

Their party was welcomed at Highgarden by a guide. He was confirmed a Tyrell man hired to help them. The man led the way to their allocated position within the camps where the members of their party had finished setting up. As expected, their presence caused a riot of whispers. While many northerners frequented the South for trade and leisure, the Starks were an anomaly in the sense that they have not taken part in Southern affairs since the war.

Sansa watched her mother converse with the guide. She looked so lovely and natural; their southern expenditure had done wonders to her mood. Sansa, on the other hand, was out of place. Girls her age were dressed in fine silks and poofy skirts; their hair was decorated with roses and daisies and other flowers she could not even begin to name. There was one child, no older than Arya, wearing a necklace made of emeralds! On her left, she saw a group of omegas playing with their dolls. Sansa tried to smile at them, but the leader of the group turned her nose and laughed. She said something to her friends, and they joined her mocking.

Sansa’s face burned with embarrassment. She bunched up her ragged dress, dull from wash and stained from travel, and walked faster to her tent. She wished to hide and never be seen again!

Before Sansa could get lost in the crowd, Jon took ahold of her hand. He smiled, sweetly as she’s always known him to smile, and advised her not to concern herself with them. “Sansa, do not waste worries on the envy of objects. You are the finest flower of this field, with or without the silks from Volantis.” 

Sansa scoffed. She could not be bothered with the lies. Jon was her brother; he was supposed to comfort her. Besides, such advice was easy for him to give. From every direction, alphas were turning their head for a chance to savor his sight. She was too tall with gangly limbs and hair like sores. For once, she was jealous of her carefree sister, who would roll her eyes at her callous southern peers and earn their contempt without a thought.

“Sansa,” Jon pressed; his voice, solemn. Sansa turned to her brother. He gently grasped her hand and spoke, “You need to hold your head up high. You are the eldest daughter of Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. You are responsible for representing the North.” He brushed away a strand of red hair. “What will happen if word gets out that Lord Stark’s eldest daughter suffers from weakness of will? He would never live it down.”

Sansa was startled by the suggestion. She never thought about how her behavior would affect her family! Straightening up for the sake of the North, she continued marching with her family as if nothing was wrong. Still holding her hand, Jon hid his grin.

When they arrived at their given location, they could not hide their shock from the lavish accommodations before them. Tents three times the size of their own were set up, and a collection of squires awaited them hand and foot. The guide did not wait to be asked.

“Lord Tyrell has anticipated Lord Stark’s arrival for some time. He wanted to make sure you were well adjusted. The tents are on loan until the tourney’s end and the feast provided has been paid for. These are all for your men to use.” He smiled at Lady Stark, proud of his employer’s generosity as if it came from his own pocket. “Furthermore, we would like to extend an invitation to your family.”

“An invitation?” Sansa asked excitedly.

“To stay at Highgarden throughout the tourney,” the guide clarified. “For you, your children, and…your husband’s natural son.”

Jon startled at the address. The guide avoided his gaze, as many have done since his arrival in the South—it was either that or intrusive curiosity. Jon tightened his grip on Sansa. When she asked if he was alright, he smiled and said nothing. Jon stared straight into the guide's eyes and saw nothing but annoyance—the man did not hide his irritation that a bastard child was to accompany the finest lords in the Reach. He frowned in dissatisfaction. There was nothing to be read from the messenger.

“Can we go?” Sansa pleaded. She did so loudly when she saw how much attention the invitation attracted. The girls from before were staring. “I’ve never been inside a southern castle before.”

Arya was eager to see the dwelling as well. She was an adventurer and loved to witness the various nooks and crannies of a new house. Robb, the only dissenter—for he preferred to stay with his camp—said nothing. Lady Stark did not hesitate to make her decision.

“Of course we could not refuse the offer of a high lord. Please tell Lord Tyrell that we would be honored to break bread with him.”

“Very good, Lady Stark,” the guide smiled, for he knew she was a proper southern woman despite her rugged companions. He continued his journey forwards, where his masters were waiting.

***

Lord Tyrell of Highgarden welcomed his visitors with open arms. Like any busy lord, he made them wait the customary five minutes ( _two—for he was an impatient man and standing behind his gates, waiting for the sand to pour down the hourglass, was no fun_ ). Thankfully, he was not sweating. He was given ample time to greet them as his servants gave notice to their arrival ( _they were mother’s spies, employed as gardeners and maids_ ). Once he gave the Starks his proper pleasantries ( _poorly hiding his disappointment when he saw that Lord Stark was not amongst them_ ), he walked them through a hallway lined with golden roses ( _all painted_ ) and tapestries dedicated to the noble ( _but not royal_ ) lineage of the Tyrells.

Sansa decided that she liked Lord Tyrell, even when he mistook Jon for herself. He was an omega high lord and they were a rarity beyond diamonds ( _there was a rumor that his mother,_ _a female omega_ , _was the true matriarch of the family_ ). Though fat from a decade of child-bearing, he maintained his good cheer and had a pleasant ( _albeit foolish_ ) approach to life. He was a babbler, though, and the children decided that marveling at the Highgarden’s grandeur was a better use of their senses. The entire castle was filled with decorative pillars and adorned with knick-knacks that served no purpose but to look _nice_. There were heirlooms of every kind and compared to their Northern home, Highgarden was a marketplace of treasures.

While the journey to the Highgarden court was long, they eventually met Lord Tyrell’s husband. Lady Hightower was handsome—in the way many alpha women are—and tall. He liked big things, they would come to know, and she was a good deal younger than the man himself. While Lord Tyrell took the birth of his children as an opportunity to let his body run free, Lady Alerie did no such thing. She was a friendly person and loved her wife with dearly. Thanks to her mother-in-law’s meddling, she did not gain Hightower as her father had planned. The crone even made her keep her family name. In contrast to her father, Alerie was not bitter about the circumstances. She supposed it was because of her husband’s endearing nature. His plump form only heightened his delightfulness, and she adored getting him pregnant. Though age was upon them, she and Mace were still aiming for their fifth child, much to the chagrin of his mother and her father. Why rule a kingdom, Alerie thought, when there were so many pleasurable activities to indulge in—like making children?

“This is my husband, the beautiful and ever dignified, Lady Alerie Hightower,” Lord Tyrell cooed. His doting address caused his mother to roll her eyes. Lady Alerie ignored her. The lady left her seat to greet the Starks. She thanked them for coming all this way. Then, she introduced her children.

“Unfortunately, my second son, Garlan, is not with us today. He is practicing for the tourney.” She laughed merrily. “He has his eye on an omega and hopes to crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Lady Stark wished she could not relate. She spared a glance towards her eldest son and glared at the hand wrapped around his brother’s waist. She returned her attention to Lady Alerie.

“But this is my youngest, Margaery—I believe she is the same age as your eldest son.” As if on cue ( _as if she was ever not on cue_ ) the mentioned omega stood up and bowed respectfully. Jon took a long, hard look at her. She was as pretty as a doll and well aware of her good fortune.

“I am pleased to meet you,” she told Lady Stark. “You are as beautiful as your reputation makes you out to be.”

In response, Lady Stark gave her a warm smile. “Oh, believe me, Lady Margaery. I am more pleased to make your acquaintance.” Jon could hear her smugness oil the wheels in her head. Margaery Tyrell was everything a mother could want for her son. Any alpha mated to her would be promised beautiful children and a dowry sufficient for an army. Jon’s control of his emotions weakened; his jealousy poured out of his skin. Robb tightened his non-discreet hand on his hip. Jon would scold him for it later; for now, he relished in the touch.

“Do not worry,” Robb assured. “Men in the Reach are chivalrous to a fault. Alphas are not allowed to initiate courtship without their sire’s permission.” His lips lingered against his ear. “And I have no intention of asking for it.” When they were alone, Jon promised to reward Robb for his fidelity—right after he punished him for his insolence.

Lady Alerie continued her introductions. “And this is Loras, our third son.”

Loras coughed shamelessly. His father laughed. “Oh excuse me, _Ser_ Loras Tyrell.” She rolled her eyes, but it was quite clear that she was proud. “He was made a knight last year. We have high hopes for him. On his first tourney at Storm’s End, he won both the novice tournament and placed in the advance rounds. We expect him to take the laurel. Ah! But don't tell Garlan that! We'd hate for him to think we have no confidence in him and he tries so hard.” 

Loras kissed Lady Stark’s hand before throwing a smile at Sansa. His grin made Sansa’s heart flutter—Loras reminded her of the knights in her fairy tales. Perhaps the most beautiful of his family members, the man’s flowing brown hair and golden eyes would forever be imprinted in her memory. Not only was he beautiful, Loras was a fierce warrior, an alpha, and came from a good family! Surely, if Sansa proved herself a worthy mate at this tourney, she could convince her father into making a marriage offer! Jon was right. Sansa’s sour mood became fresh again with the new possibilities.

When the last and eldest of the children was to be introduced, Lady Stark had long forgotten of his condition. Instead of an appropriate nod or a brave stand, the heir to Highgarden walked over to the northern nobles. His leg dragged, but there was no sign of discomfort on his face. He was brave—and no one dared disgrace his efforts by dismissing him from the task.

“I am honored to meet you, Lady Stark, and your lovely children. May we build great bonds during this tourney.” He bowed, as expected of a lord. For a crippled man, it made him look like a king. 

He was clever, Jon praised inwardly. He watched the performance with the natural suspicion ingrained in him as a crannogman. Before he could look away, Willas caught his stare. Jon was taken back by the intelligence hiding in those hawk-like eyes. Within seconds ( _but not soon enough, for in his eyes, Jon saw a leader and a tactician all at once_ ), those orbs were filled with warmth and sympathy.

“You must be Jon Snow.”

Lady Stark tensed, as did Robb. Jon kept his composure in spite of the atmosphere’s strain. He lowered his eyes. “Yes, my lord. I apologize if my appearance offends you. I was told I would be welcomed here.”

Willas did not hesitate to answer.

“Of course you are, or else I would not have invited you.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “You invited me?”

If Willas thought he made a mistake, he did not show it. “While the South has a poor reputation towards natural born children, I assure you that my family holds no such prejudice. _We_ invited you here because you are a beloved child of Lord Stark and will be treated as such.”

"We are not bigots," Mace proudly proclaimed.

Contrary to what other people believed, the alpha was a warrior—Willas was the kind that used a pen instead of a sword ( _the worst kind, the kind that couldn’t be fought because their battle lines were drawn with maesters and scribes_ )

"You are too kind." Jon faked a yawn. “Apologies, my lord. The trip has made me fatigue. May I ask to see my room?”

“I shall send for a girl,” Willas offered; his voice smooth as molted glass. He motioned the serving girls to come forward. “They will escort you.”

Robb, who had been silent during the interaction, accompanied his brother. Throughout the interaction, he watched the Tyrell’s motions, from the way his fingers clenched his cane to his twitching smile that never became full. Willas escaped his wrath through his eyes. Robb kept note of every alpha he meets. He observed them all, from the top of their heads to the bottom of their soles, less he caught a darkened gaze or the hint of fangs.

When Willas looked at Jon, there was no lust, only desire. He wanted something from Jon, but it was not his body or his babes. Robb planned on figuring out the motive; but for now, he would continue watching, waiting to decide whether Willas Tyrell was going to become a friend or a foe.

***

Their allotted bedrooms were next to each other. Jon wondered about the distance the Tyrell spies went through to collect as much information as they did. They knew enough to know that Jon and Robb slept by each other’s side, but not enough to know that they slept in the same room. Or perhaps the Tyrells did not want to let on that he knew more than he did. Neither possibility was good, but one required him to act with more tact than the other.

Robb took off his dirty clothes as soon as they got in. In response, Jon removed each lace of his trouser; he teased the string between his fingers and motioned it up and down. He kept his eyes on Robb at all times. Robb threw his jerkin on the floor and his shirt followed. Sweat was dripping off of Robb’s body. Jon’s cock twitched. Jon crawled on his hands and knees until he was in front of Robb’s hips. The heir was standing, tall and firm, with a half-erect cock that said he was flustered by Jon’s sudden wantonness.

“You were so good just now,” Jon praised. “I had thought when Willas stepped forward; you’d rip his head off.”

“He is a cripple,” Robb dismissed. “I would never fight a man unable to defend himself. I have my honor.”

“He is still the heir to Highgarden,” Jon pointed out. His expression was wary. “And you were watching him very closely.”

“He is…curious,” Robb admitted. “He may be stronger than me—to inhale your sweetness and not ravish you on the spot.”

Robb hopped onto the bed beside Jon. He pulled his younger brother into a kiss. Jon was wearing nothing but a shirt whereas Robb still adorned his pants. They laid in bed; getting their fill of each other’s mouths. Robb slipped his hands on Jon’s bottom and pushed his finger in to pry his hole open. Jon gasped. He parted away from Robb.

“You promised Ser Rodrik that you would concentrate on the tourney,” Jon reminded; he tilted his neck to give Robb greater access.

“It has been a long time since we’ve made love on a proper bed. If I am to be condemned to abstinence, why not enjoy one final moment of luxury?”

Jon whimpered when the finger pushed all the way into his hole. His slick started pouring out. Through half-lidded eyes, he saw the window on the wall. The sun shone through, and he could get a glimpse of the cities below. Jon giggled.

“What is the matter?” A frown marring his perfect features.

Jon licked his lips. “I was looking through the windows.” He pushed himself off of Robb’s finger. He got off the bed and walked over to the window sill. “Do you remember the history of the Kings of the Reach?”

Robb groaned. “I suppose you’ll tell me?”

Jon smacked his lips. “You need to catch up on your lore.” Jon undid the first button of his shirt.

“I’ll do that when you can write a letter without mixing the tenses.”

“Your language is a farce of the tongue,” Jon snapped, ruining his seductive stride. Robb chuckled in victory. Jon’s cheeks lit up red. Robb walked up to him and joined their lips.

“The Kings of the Reach began with Garth Greenhand, the High King who led the First Men across the Arm of Dorne. From his loins came Garth the Gardener and founder of the now extinct House Gardener—the last member dying in Field of Fire. His steward, a member of the Tyrells, submitted to Aegon Targaryen's rule and was rewarded the Reach to rule.” Robb smirked. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

“No.”

Robb raised an eyebrow.

Jon smirked. “Because of King Garth’s legendary fertility, the Gardeners had an unusual wedding tradition.” Jon rubbed the outline of Robb’s cock. “Newly wedded couples were expected to put on a live show for the entire kingdom. They did this to test the Gardener’s potency.” Jon chuckled. “I was wondering if we could give the world a show.”

Robb’s excitement was able to brush off his embarrassment. He overlooked the scene before them. Their room was far too high to be seen but still gave Robb a bird’s eye view of the towns below them. The thought of claiming Jon in front of a crowd got his cock to full hardness.

Robb flipped Jon around so that his face was pressed against the glass. He got out his cock, already dripping with pre-cum, and pressed it against Jon’s cunt. He remembered the stories—how men would offer their virgin omegas to King Garth to have their crops ripened and their trees bountiful with harvest. Any maiden he deflowered would receive strong alphas and fair omegas. Almost all the members of the Reach were believed to be a descendent of his. It was said that the lands alone carried his potency and that couples having problems conceiving could step forward on the Reach’s plains and be blessed with children the next day. It was all poppycock, but Robb was tempted to test out the truth. Jon was taking his medicine religiously, but for pride’s sake, Robb believed his seed could overcome the magic. 

Just as Robb was about to enter his brother, the doors knocked.

“M’lord?” An unfamiliar chime rang. “Are you in there? We were sent from Lord Tyrell to deliver your wares. May we enter?”

Robb wanted to turn them away, but Jon’s laughing reprimand stopped him. The younger boy advised him to pull up his pants while he retreated to the bed. Robb raised an eyebrow.

“I am supposed to be resting,” Jon reminded as he slipped underneath the covers, bottomless.

Robb groaned as he walked to the door and let them in. Not expecting a half-dressed lord, the two serving girls gasped. Jon snapped his head to their direction. He forgotten how private southerners were about their bodies—Northerners dressed conservatively for the weather. Inside their homes, where the warmth of the hot springs protected them, Robb was used to being in various states of undressed. Growing up in the Neck, Jon was also used to the low neckline or the shorter skirt. Their workers knew not to stare.

The South had not yet learned.

“We…” She sounded breathless. She was fascinated by Robb’s Northern body, lined with muscles formed from the labor all Northerners were expected to engage in—even lords. “Oh, my…” Her friend jabbed her in the ribs.

“We are here to deliver some dressing options for dinner—for you and your brother. Lord Tyrell was worried that your clothes were unsuited for the South.” She, too, could not resist licking her lips. Her attention moved downwards. Jon stiffened. It was obvious where her sluttish gaze was falling upon.

“Can my brother and I have some privacy? I would like to be alone,” Jon snapped. The girls jumped, embarrassed by their lustfulness. They scattered away immediately.

Robb closed the doors and chuckled.

“What is it?” Jon asked, a warning tone accompanying his question.

“Nothing,” Robb said as he shook his head. He laid their clothes on the bed. There were a dozen outfits for each of them. “Lord Tyrell was very generous.”

Jon picked up a dress for himself. “This looks new.”

“It probably is.”

“A bit much for a bastard, even a recognized one.”

“Your mother is a nobleman as well.”

Jon was unconvinced. “They are very kind to us.”

“Too kind, I suppose?”

Jon sighed and put away his concerns. “I don’t wish to draw any conclusions before more clues make themselves known. The South is known for their wastefulness, and I doubt Lord Tyrell bears me any ill-will.” Jon went back to bed.

“But Lord Tyrell is not who you are worried about.”

Jon pursed his lips.

“No, he is not.”

***

At dinner, they were introduced to Lord Garlan, the second son. He was a true second son. Like his younger brother, most of his interests laid in sports and chivalrous exploit but he carried none of Loras's conceit. Conversation was rich during the first plates. The Queen of Thorns was silent at the beginning the dinner—holding her tongue if her reputation was to believed. Like the spies she employed, she kept an open ear to each conversation, no matter how small. For that reason, Jon asked to be seated next to Arya instead of Robb. Though upset by the change of seating, Robb understood the strategy enough to let it slide. Being so close to Robb would make him weak to habits. Even now, staring at him from across the table, Robb was wondering about how slick Jon remained after being fucked in his new dress.

“How do you like your new dress, Jon?” Willas asked. “I was worried it would not fit. I heard the crannogmen were small but given your diet at Winterfell; I was led to believe you would be a bit bigger.”

“Most of your options were lovely,” Jon stated. “Really, your family is too kind. I am simply ashamed that you wasted such luxury on someone of my standing.” 

Willas was amused by his submissive answer. He took a sip of his wine. “Standing? What do you mean?” He asked.

Jon narrowed his eyes. He put on his most charming smile to hide his grimace. “I am a bastard, my lord. I understand you are trying to be kind, but I do not care for falsities.”

Willas chuckled. “We are all bastards, Jon. One way or another.”

“Willas,” his grandmother warned. Her voice was sharp as needles. “I assure you, I am most certainly not a bastard. And if you are to be so crude with your language, you might as well join the whore houses the other fat fools frequent."

"I simply stating fact."

"I have told you before; if debating history brings you joy, I can arrange a ride to the Citadel. Otherwise, you wasting your breath here, where dumb oxen and headless chickens roam.”

“Mother!” Lord Tyrell was aghast at the insult—in front of their esteemed guests no less!

Willas brushed her off. “We are all bastards, in some way or the other. Our ancestor bedded hundreds of omegas yet only married a small handful of those he impregnated. The Tyrells, the Hightowers, the Redwynes,” he sent a pointed look at his grandmother. “All of us. _Bastards_. I was talking to a friend of mine…”

The table erupted into groans.

Even Lady Alerie was upset. “Not that dreadful Martell again!”

“Oberyn has an eclectic mind,” Willas defended.

“After what he did to you, I cannot believe he has the nerve to request your friendship!” stated Lord Tyrell, wrecked with anger. Lady Alerie rested her hand on his chest. Her precious omegas’ health always waned with stress.

Willas chuckled at the strife he formed. He turned back to Jon. “My point is: an educated populace should not have their behaviors swayed by superstitions and unfounded fears. The treatments against bastards are unjustified. You are the son of Eddard Stark, an esteemed high lord, and Lord Howland Reed, arguably the most famous omega warrior of his generation. Why is it that you, in comparison to your brothers and sisters, be subjugated to misfortune? Why should any child have to suffer from their lineage?”

Jon was taken back. A lump was caught in his throat.

“Willas,” his little sister strained. “I do not believe this is the time for such conversations. You are being offensive to our guests.” Willas glanced over to Lady Stark, who was visibly shaken by Willas’ claims. Before he could apologize, Robb spoke.

“I agree.”

They turned to the Stark heir. Despite the presence of wine, Robb’s eyes were never clearer.

“Even in the North, a bastard as fortunate as Jon suffers from this prejudice—despite his attempts to hide it from me, I’ve seen it.” Robb directed his attention to Willas. He ignored Jon’s burning gaze. “On our way here, we were staying at a tavern. I was practicing my racing in the woods, and one of the men heard Jon being called ‘Snow.’ He did not know who Jon was. He waited until Jon went to the woods for relief and cornered him in woods. If Jon had been a trueborn child, that would not have happened.”

“How did you…” Jon was speechless. He could not finish the question. 

“Jory told me. He said you handle it yourself; that he found the man dead when he came upon you two. Ser Rodrik made me run a hundred paces to relieve myself of the anger. He convinced me that such an action would only shame you so I kept silent. Yet, I could not let it go. I went to investigate and the innkeeper claimed that you were a bastard so they did not mind it. They would have let you get raped because you were a bastard.”

“Robb,” Catelyn advised her son. “This is not the place for such conversation.” She turned to her daughters. Sansa and Arya were staring in horror.

Robb gulped the last of his wine. The serving girl was quick to fill up the goblet. “One day, when I rule the North, I plan on having Jon by my side. I want his presence to remind the world of how high bastards can rise.”

There was no greater conviction ever spoken than Robb’s declaration. The dire story should have ended all conversations for the night. Willas, a talker by trade, was quick to agree. He spared the drowning atmosphere no mind. It was an impressive skill, one that even his grandmother was amazed by.

“A most terrible occurrence,” Willas told him. He directed his attention to Jon. “I assume that your method of handling the man is an allusion to your mother’s skill.”

Jon nodded. He was startled by the question; while people were quick to point out his sire’s lineage, his mother remained a ghost in most conversations. “Yes, I hope to be a warrior as great as my parents.”

“A noble gesture, one I wished to mimic once upon a time.” Willas patted his leg dramatically. “Unfortunately, my fate was redirected towards parchments rather than pavement. Such is the life of a cripple.”

“If only you fell on your mouth that day,” Lady Olenna quipped. “Then perhaps we could finally eat in peace.”

“Yes, I am sure you are eager to hear from Garlan and Loras, grandmother.” Willas turned to his younger brothers. “Tell me, Garlan. How is Lady Leonette? I heard she changed her hairstyle.”

“Oh yes!” Garlan swooned, for he was more or less unconcerned with his brother’s politics. “She has taken to wearing her hair in four braids instead of two. I bought her a collection of magpie clips to go with the style but I am contemplating giving it to her before the tourney or after. If I give it to her before—”

“No one cares,” Lady Olenna dismissed. “And don’t bother to speak Loras, I am equally unconcerned with the horse you’ve chosen.” She settled on her eldest grandson. “I swear, did you run your mouth this much before the accident?”

“No,” Willas revealed. “The benefits of being cripple lies in the audacities I can utter.” 

Lady Margaery giggled. Their guests, despite the earlier tension, were inclined to smile. Willas changed the topic. “Robb, forgive my candor but have any omegas caught your eye? I’ve been told that the Reach has some of the most beautiful omegas in the world.”

“You’ve been told?” Robb asked. “You do not think so?”

Willas laughed at the side-step. “I am a man of logic, Robb. Someone with my ailment needs a partner with more to offer than a pretty face.” He glanced over at Jon. “Perhaps a warrior?”

Lady Olenna shut down the possibility before Robb had a chance to be insulted.

“Willas, flirting without discrimination is your brother’s territory.” Loras gasped at the insult. She turned to Jon. “Pardon my grandson but he finds these jokes amusing. He has no interest in you. Though you are a pretty thing, the Reach will never welcome a bastard as its ruler.”

“Mother, after what was just said?” Lord Tyrell looked embarrassed. Truth be told, Robb was embarrassed for him. Jon was too shocked to respond.

“It’s a cruelty to let him think otherwise. Besides, he has no intentions of marriage here. No self-respecting Northerner would. Entering the circle of omegas here is like experiencing a second hell. I’ve been a wife for over forty years, I’ve joined the irregular cross-stitching circles, have attended every poorly played recital from the high harp to the accordion. You spare yourself and stick to the North.” She scoffed. “You will thank me later.”

“Mother, that is not true!” Lord Tyrell was taken back by the malice, for he loved making his rose handkerchiefs and his husband always smiled when he came up with a new tune.

“Yes! Lady Leonette plays the high harp beautifully!” Garlan defended. He stood up, indignant of the accusation. Everyone stared at him. He settled down. “Well, she does.”

Willas laughed. He apologized to his guests. “I am sorry. We don’t meet northerners often. I got ahead of myself.”

Jon glanced over at Robb, who was more confused than jealous.

“It is alright. I…appreciate the gesture,” Jon said evenly.

Robb continued the conversation. “Um…no I am not searching for a wife at the moment. I am still young.” He took a bite of his food. “But you must have plenty of offers, being the heir of such a fine kingdom.”

“You would think so? Ah, but I am a cripple and these are the lands of knights.”

“A rich cripple,” Robb countered. “And I doubt your children will be trampled coming out of the womb.”

The humor was dark and suited for a harder table. Willas, a connoisseur of comedy, laughed. “True, I have no one to blame but my high standards.”

“They are as high as the skies,” Lady Margaery reprimanded, but there was good faith in her tone.

“What are those standards?” Jon asked. Despite his suspicions, Jon could not deny that Willas would make a profitable ally in the future. Perhaps a man for Sansa, or even for Arya, if she could be convinced.

Willas hummed. The look in his eyes said he knew exactly what Jon was planning. “I do not care for great beauties but they must be eye-catching. I want people to stare when they make a speech. I prefer girls over boys, a preference that is not set in stone, but there. Heat compatible, for it is known that they produce the finest children. She, let’s use the address for the time being, would have to come from a large family. I want many children and I am growing old; fertility is a necessity. Well-educated, of course, but more than that, I want her to dominate a conversation. I want her to challenge my authority.” He chuckled and thought some more. “As I stated before, I think it is best for me to find a fighter. I am not ashamed to be the one protected. Someone who understands warfare will know when it is the time to act and when it is the time to stay. And having a spouse who could lead will improve an army's moral. Oh, she needs to have a presence—a power behind her that would make everybody listen. Bravery, oh I lust for it. Wit that captures my heart.”

Loras could not help but scoff. “You ask for too much. Female omegas do not fight. Unless they are bastards from Dorne.” His father shot him a reprimanding look.

Arya looked ready to argue the matter. It was Jon who spoke. “They do in the Neck,” Jon denied. All eyes turned to him. “As well as in the farther regions of the North, where wildling raids are common. My aunt spoke of it. She married the Lady of Bear Island. There, because males are expected to go on fishing expenditures—it is said that the sea favors their sex—the women stay behind and fight raiders—alpha or omega. My cousin Lyanna is an omega and she holds a spear and a sword.” He sent an affectionate gaze to his sister, Arya. “And soon, I will teach my sister how to do the same.”

Arya grinned.

“A enlightened concept,” Willas approved. “I admire your forward thinking. Often, we forget how advance the North is, dismissing your people as savages because of your sparse way of life. Yet your omegas have more rights than ours do and instead of letting your people suffer, you develop new technologies to survive the winter. Is it true that your people breed plants in clear houses?” 

Robb nodded. “We call them glass gardens. Father plans to have one in every direction before winter comes. They are hard to manage without a spring to warm them, but our maesters have made strides to improve their accessibility.”

“Fascinating.” Willas grinned. “Perhaps, if I get myself a Northern bride, I will be able to have one of my own.”

“Maybe you should make a test,” Jon jested. “When our grandfather wanted to marry his wife, our great-grandmother set forth two traps for her hand. He battled a mountain lion and a hound and then served her pelts as a bridal price.” 

The story was almost unbelievable; Loras scoffed in disbelief. “You northerners have strange customs.” 

Garlan, who found the story to be the epitome of masculinity, cheered the tale. “Ah…true love does conquer all!” He wondered if he could do the same for his future bride. No other man would ever go to such lengths.

Willas laughed. He took the suggestion in stride. “Perhaps I shall make a riddle?” He made a contemplative expression. “I don’t know where I could get a lion. Perhaps, a bear?”

“Willas…” his grandmother warned.

Jon chuckled. Robb smiled at the cheer on his face. He turned to Willas. “We wish you the best of luck and all the blessings of the old gods and the new.” He raised his glass. “For if you find such a woman, she must be made with their hands.”

***

When dinner was over with, Margaery escorted her brother to his bed. He leaned on her for support when they were in view and as soon as they were left alone, he walked on his cane with leisure.

He was sure Jon suspected the truth—the boy was clever up to see through his first act. He must have known that the reason he remained unmarried at his age was to wait out the best possible offer. There were so many omegas in Westeros, from proud and affluent families, that have not bloomed. Furthermore, with all the heated tensions in the capital, they would be fools not to take advantage of it when the time was right. An alpha’s virility lasted far beyond an omega’s. 

“How was dinner?” Margaery asked once they reached his bedroom. She helped him into his bed.

“Why ask? You were there.”

Margaery smiled tightly. “I mean, how was your selection? Do you still think it was a good idea to invite the Starks?”

Willas chuckled. He asked her to light the candles. Once she was finished, she sat on his bed. “Are you still bitter about losing the petition? Not even Loras grumbled this much.”

“I am beginning to think that the Baratheons would have been a better choice than the Starks.” 

“And of course, the Lannisters would have been the best,” Willas teased. Margaery pouted. “No, we made the right decision. I am sure that after tonight, grandmother will agree.”

“Why?” Margaery asked. For though she was shrewd and calculating, she was young. Her inexperience weakened her foresight.

Willas took her hand. He directed her towards the window. “What do you see when you look outside?”

Margaery sighed. She was not in the mood for a riddle yet complied nonetheless. “Highgarden, brother. I see Highgarden.”

“Ah, but is it the same Highgarden you grew up in? The same Highgarden from last year? Or the year before?”

Margaery raised an eyebrow.

Willas continued. “Winter is coming. The crops have depleted and the lands are growing barren from overuse. The Starks know storage techniques that have kept them alive for centuries. They’ve bred their plants to be more impervious to the cold. Their glass garden is reported to be as large as a house and will survive a hailstorm. I have tried to develop their methods but I have found nothing. This isn’t just about gaining power or wealth, Margaery, this is about staying alive. The Lannisters know power. The Baratheons know war. The Starks know how to _live_.” He sighed. “You don’t remember the winters, but I do. The worst one was before you were born—a fifth of our people died.” He kissed her forehead. “I am not letting that happen again.”

Margaery had never seen her brother so shaken. She grasped his hand. “What do you need me to do? Is it about the heir? Should I seduce him or—”

“No.” Willas rejected the proposal. “No, I won’t risk your happiness for anything less than a kingdom. I will secure the northern alliance. Garlan will satisfy our kingdom by marrying Lady Leonette and Loras will mate that Baratheon boy and get Storm’s End. You focus on capturing the kingdom.”

Margaery said nothing.

“Do you understand Margaery?”

After a while, the girl nodded. The doubt in her eyes was evident. Willas took ahold of her face.

“From the moment you were born, I knew you were destined for great things. We all did. You are so clever, Margaery. You are smarter than me.”

Margaery laughed. No one was smarter than Willas. As if hearing her thoughts, he denied her.

“You are and that’s why you’ve been groomed to be a queen—not a lady. A lord does not deserve you. A kingdom does. And while your husband’s name is written in history books, a single inscription in a book of genealogies, yours will be on houses and towers, statues and monuments. The Great and Wise Queen Margaery. Some queens are remembered, but legends never die. You Margaery? You will be a legend.” 

Touched by his faith, she embraced him with all the love in her heart. Jokingly, she asked what would happen if she did not like her husband. “Then, you tell us,” Willas informed her. “And he will not be a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“As long as you have an heir, your position is secured. A husband who cannot support his queen is just another inconvenience. In my experience, inconveniences are better off… _gone_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Super schizo-end note alert***  
> \--  
> Chapters will be updated every two weeks on Saturday. Thank you very much for your patience and I hope you enjoyed the recent update. Also, still working the A/B/O universe extra. Sorry, I was so focused on writing the chapters, it went over my head to do the universe explanation.  
> \--  
> I posted this at the end of Runs in the Family but this story has more serious offenders so I'm reposting it here:  
> So one of my favorite fanfiction authors recently posted a note, which I respected and somewhat admired her for, and she said she was suspending her account because the number of reviews to her hits, bookmarks, and subscribers were severely disproportionate to one another. And this is normal, I don't expect everyone who reads this story to review it. I do expect people who bookmark and subscribe do--out of common courtesy. I don't appreciate it the fact that I spend hours on these chapters and some people can't be spared a few minutes to write some sort of appreciation.  
> Fanfiction is a hobby. It's free whether I update every week or once a year. And no one wants to be the writer who says "oh if I don't have ten reviews, I'm not updating." That's bitch stuff. I transferred from ff.net to AO3 to avoid that behavior. Yet, when people don't review, it makes me reconsider why I bother to work as hard I do to produce quality work in a timely matter. I'm sorry to unload this on the more faithful reviewers but it's been annoying for some time.  
> \--  
> Next chapter will feature a lot more plot than smut. Plus, we get to see Lyanna Mormont take some more action. I fucking love that badass.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the last chapter was smut incarnate than this was 90% plot. I’m genuinely disappointed in myself. There is a sex scene at the end. It's rough but I think you'll like it. Next chapter will have so much more smut. :)

Howland arrived at the riverlands with little fanfare and less notice. He was accustomed to traveling with discretion. As a child, his ambition was only rivaled by his curiosity, and he longed to see the world outside the Neck. His mother forbade his interests, and with her relatives’ eye on every leaf and bubble, the hardship of elusion was immeasurable. Yet, Howland kept on trying until his skills were so profound that he became a legend. The Freys and their lopsided minds and lackluster efficiency were nothing compared to the magic of his mother. If he could evade her, there was no wonder he crossed the Twins with ease.

Howland traveled for days and arrived at his destination at night, shrouded in steel and black—Stark colors. He dared not be so obvious in green. His face was protected by a cloak and no one was the wiser about his identity. He walked up to the gate of his chosen destination and handed them a parchment with an unrecognizable seal. He said his business was dire.

Half an hour later, a boy—whom Howland could tell by his green eyes and high height was a son of this castle—came out to greet him. He did not know Howland’s name but he was eager to make his acquaintance. “My mother and father will see you now,” he told Howland. “I apologize for the wait. We are not used to visitors at this time of night.” He bid Howland to follow and the Lord of the Neck did so at a respectful distance. Howland kept his head down in subservience and checked to see if his mask was in place. He could not afford to make mistakes—not at this stage in the game.

***

When Robb left Winterfell, his wardrobe consisted of a few shirts, a single jerkin, pants, chainmail, his riding armor, and shoes fit for travel. When he woke up, his clothes were nowhere to be found. Robb would have suspected foul play if the thieves did not replace his items with a billowy shirt made of satin, a jerkin with more decorations on it than any of Sansa’s dresses, a coat—a gorgeous blue coat with a platitude of gold buttons that did not even work, and pants, no— _breeches_ , as his mother would later clarify—that had volume comparable to a bloated slave owner. Next to the outfit rested a strip of sky-blue satin of the highest quality. Robb searched high and low for his own clothes before realizing that the outfit was not some sick prank— _but a gift._  

“Fucking southerners,” he swore.

Understanding that he could not face the world in his drawers, Robb reluctantly got dressed. He threw the shirt over his head and got started on the jerkin—the bone-gripping vest that Robb swore was not his size until he remembered that in the South, they prided themselves on their prowess in asphyxiation.

He just finished tightening the damn contraption when he heard the door open. He was not surprised to feel a pair of arms wrap around his waist; only Jon entered without warning.

“Please love, any other moment and I would gladly take your embrace but I can barely breathe as it is.”

Jon laughed and let go. “I take it that your new wares are not to your taste?”

“I am not in the business of suffocation.” He took a moment to catch his breath. Then, he grabbed his pants. He could tell from the leather lining that this would be a greater trial than the tourney. “Jon, I will swear my fealty to you today if you tell me where my clothes are.”

“You have already sworn your life and crown to me. Your fealty was implied.” Robb heard Jon fiddle with his new tokens. Despite their impracticality, the items were of high quality. The Tyrells did not exaggerate when they said they spared no expense. “The serving ladies took it for a wash last night. They should be done drying before the novice rounds begin.”

“Good or else I would have suspected them of sabotage.”

Jon erupted into giggles. Robb smiled in response. Despite the aching in his ribs, he would gladly adorn a fool’s garb in a trade for his brother’s glee. He tied up the britches of his pants though the gesture was unnecessary. He would need a giant’s strength to remove them.  

He sighed as he saw what was left of his outfit. He dared not insult his hosts by refusing their gift but nothing weighed so heavy as the jacket in his hands. He looked at the offending cloth still left on the table. “I can only assume that this was left here as an act of mercy. I am meant to hang myself after getting into these pants.”  

“I believe it is a scarf,” Jon told him with a smile. He was more than amused.

“A what?”

“A scarf,” Jon repeated. “You wrap it around your neck for warmth. Sansa told me about it."

“I am not cold,” Robb pointed out. “We are in the South.”   

“It is the fashion of the men here.” Jon swiped the offending cloth from the table and walked up to his brother. With their faces close enough to kiss, he wrapped the fabric around his neck. The coolness of the cloth made the older boy shiver. “Southern clothes suit you,” Jon murmured. He tried to mimic the bows and master the ties but his skills were nonexistent. His fingers pressed against Robb’s chest.

“Do they?” Robb asked, his tone touching Jon’s nerves like a harp string.  

“Yes, you look… _regal_ ,” Jon breathed out. He looked up through his lashes and saw Robb’s eyes burning through him.

“Do you like it?”

Jon licked his lips and avoided his gaze. “You are handsome, Robb. A change of wardrobe does not hinder or help your appeal.”

“Aye, but do you prefer me like this?” Jon yelped as his older brother pulled him in closer. Robb grabbed his ass and smirked with the infuriating smugness Jon had grown to love. “When I was born, my hair was as red as a fox playing in the dirt. My eyes were still blue but they were the color of the sky not the midnight you seek when we are wrapped in our sheets. I was born a Tully—the septa reminds me of this often.”

Jon could imagine a babe just as Robb described, grasping for life in the skies and giggling in his mother’s arms. He touched Robb’s lean face, sharpened from the stocky child he was when they met.

“You are a northerner, Robb. An exotic dress cannot change that.” Jon pulled his brother into a gentle kiss. He played with the buttons. “Though I admire the colors, I simply cannot have you attracting so much attention. We must retrieve your clothes as soon as possible so that I can undress you.”

Robb chuckled at the sweet evasion. There was no better joke than the beguiling attraction of Jon's beauty. Once Robb came to his senses, he took the opportunity to get a good look at his brother. He bared teeth at the sight. “Speaking of exotic dresses…”

“Oh?” Jon’s smile was devious. He pulled back to provide Robb with a view.

“Southerners are odd, aren’t they?” Jon asked as he traced the veins of his neck to the valley of his cleavage. Robb followed the motion with his eyes. Jon’s dress was black with gold embroidery—the Tyrells relished in their embellishments—and dipped as deep as the bowels of hell. “They praise chastity in their omegas yet see fit to reveal their flesh to the world.”

Robb came close enough to corner him against the table. He honed in on Jon’s barren nape and pushed his leg between his thighs. He grinded his knee against Jon’s swelling cock. Jon moaned. “Do you like it?” He mocked, throwing Robb’s words at him.

“I do.” Robb sucked his collarbone. “I cannot condemn all southern inventions just yet. Not when they are so kind to give me such access to this tantalizing form.” Jon shivered in delight. Robb lifted Jon upwards and laid him on the table. One of Jon’s breast escaped his confines. Robb latched onto the nipple and sucked. Robb’s cock was ready to rip through the seams of his pants.

They were too tight, thought Jon. The sight was getting him wet. He spread his legs further apart. The dress was light and airy—Robb slipped his hands underneath and gripped Jon’s thighs. He leaned down. “Are you allowed to keep this when we leave?”

Jon laughed and shook his head. “Where would I wear it?”

“At home; at Winterfell.”

“I would freeze to death.”

“Perhaps in private, then,” Robb suggested. They kissed each other in leisure, forgetting for a blessed moment about their location or the tourney or their duties as a dutiful bastard omega and the highborn heir of House Stark.

When they parted, Jon lifted himself up by grabbing onto Robb’s shoulders. He laughed when his forehead touched Robb’s right shoulder blade and soaked in the sound of his breathing. “This will be the last we see of each other before the tourney. Lady Margaery has invited Sansa, Arya, and I for a private breakfast in the rose gardens. Theon is invited as well.”

“He will like that,” agreed Robb. “Have you sent him a dress?”

“Or risk facing his wrath?” Jon asked. He lifted up his head to face Robb with faux indignation. “Yes, I had one of the servants send him an option from last night.”  

“Good.” He kissed Jon on the cheek. “It is for the best we don’t see each other. Just the thought of you makes me lose all focus.”

“You will do very poorly for I will be sitting in Margaery’s box for the tourney.”

Robb laughed. “Then I will lance blindfolded.”

Jon rolled his eyes at his foolishness. He sighed and picked up Robb’s new jacket. The cloth around his neck would go on untied. “It’s quite flamboyant.”

“Men here like to be seen. Even if it makes them a moving target.”

“I prefer you in fur over silk.”

“As do I.” Robb took the jacket from Jon’s hand and put it on. He winced. “Why must they wear so many layers? I swear, I’ve worn less in the winter.”

Robb sighed and button it up. Jon stopped him.

“You will die of a heat stroke. Wear like this and if they have any complaints, say that you preferred to be unconfined but are grateful for the indulgence and admire the taste.” Jon shook his head. “I have a feeling Lord Tyrell picked your gifts out. The serving girls were gossiping about the hours he spent on your wardrobe.”

“He should not have gone through such a grand effort.”

Jon bit his lip. Robb recognize the expression as one of hidden gossip. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Jon,” Robb warned. “Must I force it out of you?”

Jon tried not to smile. “I heard a rumor.”

Robb raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

Jon looked away, his amusement clearly showing. “Apparently, when father lifted up the siege at Storm’s End, he had to discuss the terms of surrender with Lord Tyrell. The man was…quite accommodating.”

The smirk on Robb’s face grew. “Oh? So Lord Tyrell was _smitten_? With our father?”

Jon could hear the jeering rising to his tongue. “Be nice to him,” Jon advised. “An appreciative glance is not a crime. And he is utterly devoted to his husband.”

“I never said anything,” Robb replied with the innocence of the devil. He paused and shook his head, trying to cover up his laughter. “I was just imaging father in these pants." 

Jon’s scoff erupted into full-blown laughter. They ended their amusement when a serving boy knocked on the door, offering his assistance. They turned him down. Jon was at the door when he paused. 

“Robb?”

“Yes, Jon?” His face was calm for a man about to enter his first tourney. Jon figured some motivation was in order.

“There is one item I believe the North should consider adopting.”

Robb stared at his brother strangely.

Jon lifted up his black skirt to reveal a pair of crotch-less golden knickers. His cock was limp but free and his pussy lips were spread on top of the bunched lace.

“I was a bit nervous when I saw them at a… _private stall_. But father gave us a lovely allowance and they were just so pretty. I bought them in gold—like the laurel of roses you promised me.”

Robb gaped. Before he could gather his senses, Jon dropped his skirt and opened the door. “I will see you soon. Good luck, brother.”

***

Theon was delivered the dress an hour before breakfast was supposed to start. The short notice made him annoyed, almost as annoyed as when he had to refuse the Tyrell’s generous offer and stay in at the camps. He was currently settled at the Mormont's tents with Dacey as his temporary guardian. 

“I cannot believe this! I have less than an hour to get ready before dredging tothe castle like some mule! Are they paying their servants with sand dollars?”

“If you have a problem then you should have joined Jon at the castle last night,” quipped Lyanna. The child was dressed for the day in her usual black garb and putting braids in her hair for convenience.

“I wanted to,” Theon snapped.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Lyanna, do not be rude,” chided her mother. She was dressed modestly as well but the plainness of her wardrobe brought out her exoticism.

Theon was about to reply when the answer came from the entrance. “Pardon me, my ladies. May I enter?”

Theon could not suppress his wince. He replaced his dismal expression with a smile, much to the judgement of the omega Mormont.

“Yes, Lord Domeric. We are decent.”

Lord Domeric was dressed better than ever. He intended to make an impact at this tourney and understood the values of appearance. He nodded appreciatively at Theon’s new dress.

“I see you have taken to Southern fashion. You look lovely.”

“You are too kind, Lord Domeric.”

“I mean it.” Oh and the chills returned to the Ironborn's skin. Theon repeated a mantra in his head: _smile, smile, smile._ Smile until his teeth fell out and his lips stretched across his face.

“May I ask why you are here, Lord Domeric?” Jyana asked. She finished tying up her hair and walked forward. Theon was a bit in awe at her courage; up close, she was a little over half the size of the Bolton heir. Her expression was stoic and firm. She stood between him and Theon like a shield and her skepticism was a fortress. She was a child of the Neck and the crannogmen feared nothing.

Lord Domeric was respectful. He was able to stare into her green eyes for the briefest of moments before looking away. He heard of the Neck’s divinity and whether or not he believed in such high tales, he refused to take the risk.

“Lady Jyana, please accept my sincerest hopes that your good daughter places in the tourney.”

“As do we all. Why are you here?”

Lyanna scoffed out her laughter. Theon hid his amusement by looking down.

Lord Domeric remained courteous and cold. He did not flinch. Pity, Theon thought. He would have liked a semblance of humanity in the man he was to marry.

“I came to ask Theon to join me for breakfast and a walk around the woods. We will not travel far; there is no need for a chaperone.”

Theon clenched his skirt at the offer. “Forgive me, Lord Domeric but I have been invited by Lady Margaery for this morning’s meal. Perhaps lunch or dinner?”

“I will be practicing with the other alphas for lunch and we will be surrounded by guests for dinner. I wish to talk to you alone.”

Theon could not stop his frown. Before he could make another refusal, Domeric continued to push for his obedience. “If you are so inclined to join Lady Margaery then I will respect your wishes. I will not force someone to withstand my company.”

The threat brought chills to Theon’s spine. His smile resurrected itself once more and he stepped forward. “Nonsense. I am always pleased to make your acquaintance. I am merely worried about offending the Tyrells with my refusal.”

“An appropriate fear,” Domeric agreed. “I will settle the matter when I speak to Lord Loras and Lord Garlan today so that their sister knows no offense.”

“You are too kind, my lord.”

“Please arrive at my tent when you are finished with your business. I look forward to seeing you, Lord Theon.”

Domeric left and Theons swore ice filled his footsteps. He took a deep breath and resumed his hair dressing. His hands were shaking.  

“You are being foolish,” Lyanna told him.

Theon stopped his braiding. “You don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to listen to him. If you let him control you, he will do so for your entire marriage.” Her eyes were green, like her mother’s, and raged like a hurricane of sharpened leaves. Each blade pierced into Theon’s insecurities. He resumed his braiding.

“You are a child. What do you know?”  

“That makes things worst; you are dumber than a child!”

“Lyanna.” Her mother warned. The tent fell silent with Jyana’s disapproval. “Disrespect will not be tolerated in our tents.”

“Father would have said the same thing.”

“Your father can wield an ax and take down a bear twice her size; she is the Lady of Bear Island, and until you possess the same ability, you will learn when to speak and when to listen.”

Lyanna pursed her lips and looked away. “One day I will.”

“And I dream of the freedoms you shall possess when you do,” Jyana countered.

Theon watched how Jyana’s declaration touched Lyanna. Though the omega’s body ached to disobey, she settled in her own spite instead.  Theon found her devotion enviable. “Yes, mother.” Petulance ooze out of her tone. “I will not apologize.” Righteousness was her strongest suit, and she would not allow anyone to rob her of her honesty.

Jyanna sighed, neither disappointed nor surprised. “I will not ask you to take a stance you do not believe in.” She sat next to Theon. “Let me help you with your hair,” she offered as she took his locks into fingers. It was her attempt at playing peacemaker. She must have been used to it, marrying into a family of alphas. He was pleasantly surprised by the braiding; Jyana’s handiwork was skilled. “You must want to be presentable for the tourney,” she told him.

Theon did not say anything. He had almost forgotten about the tourney. The novice tournament was today. Robb would be participating and a few other northerners were joining for the experience. There were so few knights in the North, as they did not follow the Faith of the Seven, and few participated in the tourneys, finding them girlish and wasteful. Theon smiled genuinely this time. Without a doubt, he knew a Northerner would be taking the prize today.  

“Lyanna, did you enjoy Winterfell?”

Lyanna looked up from her collection of papers. She was a strong reader; even better than Bran and they were roughly the same age. He supposed growing up amongst so many older siblings must have aged her. “I did. It was interesting to see a fort that immense.”

“Since Theon cannot make the tea, I would like you to go to Highgarden in his place. I hope you enjoy the architecture.”

“What?”

Theon snapped his head around so fast; his hair might have caused Jyana splinters. “What?” He mimicked.

“This may be your only foray into the South. You will regret not investigating further. Besides, you said you enjoyed Winterfell. Highgarden is ten times the size and much more grand. There is great history there.”

“Do you wish me to study the layout? Are we going to war?”

“My darling, _please_.” Jyana closed her eyes. “It will give me a peace of mind to know that you are safe.”

“And what dangers shall befall our camp today?”   

“A mother’s wrath for one.” Theon wondered if Jyana had ever raised her voice in her life. She was as silent as death most of the time. Jyana tied up the last strand on his left side and went to work on the right. “I have duties at the campsite. Your sister is busy with the tourney preparations. I don’t want to leave you out alone and to keep you here will cause an aneurysm of boredom. Go to your cousin; he will take care of you.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You could run away,” Jyana suggested. “I would be quite cross if you did.”

Though Theon suspected that Lyanna would never become an obedient wife, she was still a dutiful daughter. Lyanna tidied up her books on the table. “I expect retribution for this.”

“I heard the food is pleasant in the South, the Reach in particular.”

“I will eat until my stomach explodes and you will have to bear the consequences.” Her declaration was childish, but her tone was even. She sounded like an adult settling a negotiation term that displeased her.

“I would expect nothing less.”

Lyanna sighed. “Do I have to leave now?”

“If you’d wish to make the tea on time. Ask one of the Mormont men to escort you.”

Once Lyanna left, Jyana began decorating Theon’s hair with beads from his jewelry box. “Such a precocious child I have brought into this world,” she mused. There was no confliction in her tone; she loved her daughter dearly. “When I look back on the day, I wonder if she did not come out dressed in shield and holding a pen.” Jyana finished the last of her project and brought out a mirror. “What do you think?”

Theon stared at himself. He was gorgeous, as always.

“Perfect,” he told her. He brushed his hand against a braid. Taking a closer look at himself, Theon grimaced.

His beauty was wasted on the Boltons.

***

The ate their breakfast in relative silence. Domeric did speak to answer his father’s question on how he would spend the day (“Practicing for tomorrow with the other men, father”) but was otherwise prudent with his speech. When they were finished, he gave his hand to Theon, indicating that the two of them were done with their meal. Theon took it, as a good wife should, and followed Domeric outside. The Bolton heir led Theon to a walking road alongside the river. They were a few paces from the campsite and within screaming distance—the appropriate location for an omega to have an unsupervised date.

When Domeric placed a hand on Theon’s shoulder, he jumped a foot in the air.

“I apologize for startling you,” said Domeric, his tone unwavering.

Theon responded with a shaky smile. “No, you are not at fault, my lord. I am not used to an alpha’s touch.”

“How odd. I thought you’d be accustomed to it.”

Theon froze. “What?”  

Domeric’s face revealed nothing. “You are the only omega amongst your siblings and from what I heard, you are close to Robb Stark. He treats you like an older brother.”

Theon shivered. He shook his head at his foolishness. “Yes, we are close but he keeps his distance as we are not bound by blood—misunderstandings can arouse. With my siblings, we were not affectionate, not even when I was young.”

“A pity.” Domeric stopped at a cluster of wildflowers and stared at the running river banks. “I did have an ulterior motive asking you to join me this morning.”

“Oh?” Theon prepared for the worst. He bit his lip so that the pain could crowd out his drumming nerves.

“Yes,” Domeric told him as stepped in front of his path. He touched Theon’s cheek. His hands were cold despite the southern climate. “I wanted to apologize for what I did to you in Winterfell. My behavior was unacceptable for a future husband.”

His admission surprised Theon. He looked up to Domeric. There was no apology on his face but there was… _something_ in his eyes.

“I was jealous. Ramsay has a knack for taking the things I want and _destroying_ them.” Domeric’s eyes shifted to a blazing fire. “When I saw you two together, your connection, I was overwhelmed. I saw all his victims in you, and I couldn’t let you end up like them.”

Theon’s eyebrows furrowed. “Victims?”

Domeric sighed. “Omegas he would play games with; pretty little creatures he’d use for his ‘hunts.’ They turned up dead within a few weeks of catching his eyes, sometimes a few days. There was a shepherd’s girl whose innards were eaten by dogs.”

“Oh god…” Theon shivered. 

Domeric leaned in. “When you are my wife, I will protect you.” He touched Theon’s braid. “But as my wife, you must be loyal to me above anyone—be it your father or the Starks. You must obey my law as if I was king.”

Their lips were an inch away from each other. Theon stood as still as a statue. “Will you forgive me, Theon? Be my beautiful, dutiful wife?”

Theon’s lips parted just the slightest. Domeric took the opportunity to lean in and capture his lips for a kiss. There was no passion or tenderness, but it was a kiss that sealed a union for the two of them.

When they parted, he offered to take Theon back to the camp. Theon accepted.

“I look forward to crowning you,” he said as they drew near to their camp.

“I look forward to wearing it,” Theon replied evenly. “And Lord Domeric, may I speak freely?”

“Yes.”

Theon took a deep breath. “I am the son of Lord Balon Greyjoy, liege lord of the Iron Islands. I would never sully myself with a bastard.” He gave Domeric a look of affection. “Not when I can have you: the heir of Dreadfort.”

A semblance of a smile appeared on Domeric’s face. Theon sighed in relief.

Domeric was satisfied. Theon was safe for now.

***

“Tourneys center on the melee, or mock combat, and each round consists of a general fight where men are divided into two sides and came together in a charge or a joust. At a signal, a bugle or herald's cry—my family likes to use a horn that sounds like a hawk’s, and the riders will come at each other and meet with levelled lances. The goal is to unhorse the other person. If someone remains on horseback, they will quickly turn and try again. If neither can get knocked off, the winner is decided by points.”

“Points?” Sansa asked.

One of the accompanying ladies scoffed. Sansa looked down in embarrassment. Jon glared at the girl and grabbed his sister’s hand. He whispered something into her ear—an assurance he knew she’d appreciate.

Margaery did not share her companion’s distaste. She smiled when she answered. “Points are decided by their aim. If they hit the shield in the center, that’s 10 points. If they hit the side, that’s less. Hitting second docks you two points less for each position.”

Her charm alleviated Sansa’s fears. She drank her tea in peace. She did not notice the obvious jealousy in the other girls’ eyes.

“The novice tournament should be completed today. They operate under a single elimination format—the man who loses the round is dropped from the tournament. The advance tournament is based off a reseeding method where the winners are played against the losers of the previous round. At the end of the day, the people with the lowest scores are eliminated. The hope is to get the best lancers in the final round.”

“How long does it last?” Jon asked.

“With the size of this tourney? I give it three days. One time, Garlan and Loras kept on tying with each other and they lasted a whole week.”

Jon grimaced. He took a sip of his tea, a mouthwatering blend of rose hips and raspberries. He took a bite of his day cake and fed a piece to Sansa. The girl was abstaining from feasting when she saw the scarce way the girls partook in their deserts. She opened her mouth out of habit; Jon fed her regularly and chewed happily on the little morsel.

One of the ladies, a Hewett girl from Oakenshield, narrowed her eyes. “You are rather close to your father’s bastard, aren’t you? How kind.”

A chill overtook the warm summer day. Jon paused from cutting another piece. He then resumed his activities.

“Sansa, you are as thin as a bird, have some more cake.” He lifted his fork and placed it in her mouth. Sansa chewed on the strawberry. Despite her discomfort, the fruit was delicious.

The Hewett girl’s taunting smirk lowered to a displeased frown. She was the middle child of two girls and a bastard. She was not the prettiest nor the ugliest member of Margaery’s group of ‘friends, ’ and she was at the median of wealth. Being ignored was commonplace in her life but not by a _bastard_ of all things.

“It’s no surprise,” she spoke again. Louder this time. “You Northerners have a lot more tolerance to the uncivilized.”

“Gwen,” Margaery spoke up. She was warning her. The Hewett was about to make another ill-spirited retort when Jon spoke up.

“A lady must always be sweet, pleasant, and patient. She cannot be overly frank, and must limit her talking as to not seem boisterous. A lady must speak with an even tone at all times, and is expected to favor other people's opinions and needs over her own. She must think for others before herself. Make others feel at east. And she must be kind.”

Jon laughed and to an untrained ear, it was to himself. To those with a talent for mockery, it was clear he was laughing at Lady Hewett. “Forgive me, my youngest sister, Arya, loathes those lessons. I had to remember the words in verbatim to teach her. Was I mistaken?”

Margaery observed him with curiosity. “Yes, word for word. Impressive.”

Jon smiled. He put down his cup of tea. “Then, perhaps Lady Gwendolyn should follow my example.”

“You little—!”

“Perhaps she should,” Margaery agreed. Lady Hewett stared at her, horrified. Margaery ignored her before tasting a piece of her cake. “I trust she will be on her best behavior for the remainder of this meal. I couldn’t live with myself if I, your hostess, made you, my honored guests, feel uncomfortable with my chosen company.” She washed down the taste of sugar with her tea. “I will take this as a lesson to consider my companions more carefully.”

The admission startled her guest. Gwen sunk into her shadow, a scowl prevalent on her face.  

“Tell me, Sansa, what is the North like? I trust the Reach has been overwhelming for you, with all the flora and sun. You must find the heat unpleasant.” Lady Leonette, whom Jon recognized as Garlan’s wife-to-be, asked. She was older than Margaery by two years, bright-eyed, and dainty. Her attempt to soothe the tension was brought upon by her sweet but dim nature.

“Oh no, the weather is fine. I spend plenty of time in the grass gardens at home, where the climate is as hot as Dorne on some days.” Sansa replied, eager to dwell on happier topics. “Your kingdom is beautiful, though. I love all your flowers and fruits and you have the cutest creatures.”

There was something about her statement that attracted Margaery to the conversation. “The glass gardens? My brother has told me about them. I heard that’s where you plant most of your vegetation?”

“Yes!” The positive attention did wonders for Sansa's complexion. “Because the fields can only be farmed during certain times of the year, some houses in the North will have glass gardens to last them throughout the winter.”

“How wonderful!” Margaery proclaimed. “I would love to get to know you better, Sansa. You must have so many interesting stories to tell.”

Sansa shook her head. “Lady Margaery, you flatter me. I’m sure my experiences are nothing compared to yours!”

Jon listened to the conversation with an unreadable expression. He waited for the girls to chat with each other some more before addressing a theory. “Lady Margaery, you and your brother seem quite fascinated with the North. I’m surprise neither of you have been there.”

Margaery did not miss a beat. “Oh, my brother’s leg keeps him from riding more than a few days from Highgarden and my parents forbid me from traveling without a small army attached. They are frightened for my safety and I hate to trouble anyone for a whim.”

“You are a true lady,” Sansa praised. There were hearts in her eyes. “Isn’t she, Jon?”

Jon smiled at his sister because he could not share the same expression with these omegas. “Yes, she is.”

“I only do what is expected of me,” said Margaery. “My brother is the heir of Highgarden and he falls asleep every night with his books as his pillows, my other brothers are knights and I take pride in being the dutiful daughter.”

“How honorable of you,” agreed Jon. He paused and looked out at the gardens where his little sister and cousin roamed. They were playing with sticks and pretending to be warriors. Lyanna was more skilled, but Arya took the bruises with good sportsmanship. She got up and kept on fighting. Jon was so proud of her.

“Where is Lord Willas today?” Jon asked.

Margaery raised an eyebrow but she never stayed startled for long. “He’s in the gardens, working on some project. Today he was supposed to check out the fields for fertility or something of the sort. I can never wrap my head around those things.” She laughed, pretty and girlish. Sansa swooned.

“I see.” Jon got up from his seat. “Excuse me, I’m afraid the younger ones will eventually get bored of their play. I’m going to take them inside. Do you mind?”

“No, of course not.”

Jon pressed his lips against the top of Sansa’s head and bid the girls goodbye. His departure surprised Sansa, who would be left alone to the vultures. She did her best not to call out for her brother. The other girls would be merciless if she did.  

As soon as Jon was out of sight, Gwendolyn's taunts returned. She was as merciless as she could be under Margaery’s watchful eye. She asked if Sansa was interested in anybody.

Sansa turned red at the thought. She was a child and her romances were pure without a semblance of the sexual nature. She thought of a man with golden eyes and flowing brown curls. “Oh I know that look,” cooed Leonette. Without Jon’s protection, she swooped in to comfort Sansa. “Who is it?”

“Oh no, it’s—it’s no one. I was—I—I simply thought Ser Loras was handsome.”

Margaery giggled which was overshadowed by her companions snickering in the background. Sansa stared at them. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m afraid you’re not his type.” Lady Hewett’s friend, a Fossoway, giggled mercilessly. “He prefers finer pastures.”

Gwendolyn Hewett slaps her shoulder in jest. “Oh you are horrible!” She accused while laughing. Each giggle made Sansa want to bury herself into a hole. “You need not be so crude,” she teased. Gwen looked at Sansa with taunting eyes. “What she means is Ser Loras is already infatuated with Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

“They absolutely adore each,” Margaery offered. Her tone was kind, a clear contrast to the ladies. “Worry not, you will have plenty of options with your beauty.”

Lady Hewett barked out laughing. “Yes, beauty is one thing but I doubt anybody would want to go to bed with a wolf. Her moonblood will only come when the teeth below bites.”

Sansa gasped.  

Lady Margaery was about to excuse the girl when Lady Hewett kept on talking. “Besides, I don’t know what alpha would want to sully himself with someone who could love a baseborn brother.”

Lady Margaery turned around. She stalked when she heard Sansa slammed her teacup against the table.

“Do not talk about my brother that way!”

The silence from earlier returned. Lady Hewett looked aghast that _this child_ could tell her what to do. “What did you say, Lady Sansa?”

Lady Margaery thought about defending Sansa. She remembered what her brother told her about time and place. She turned to the Stark and waited for the red cub's reaction.

Sansa clenched her dress. She stared her straight in the eye and apologized. “I apologize for raising my voice, but Jon Snow is my father’s son and my brother; he has been recognized and he should be treated with respect.”

“He is a—”

“Son of the Warden of the North and the Lord of the Neck, the largest region in the North. He has the blood of kings as do I.” She took a large gulp and sat up straighter. “I understand lineage may not mean anything to you, Lady Gwendolyn, as you are a child of House Hewett, whose lineage to Garth the Gardener is through his _liaison with one of the many maidens at the time_ and therefore, began with a _bastard_. I am a child of a high lord, subservience is expected of me. If my father commands me by my brother's side, I must follow him as etiquette demands. You may not understand, but things are expected towards _ladies of_ _my standing_.”

Lady Hewett was as stunned as a fish bludgeon by a club. Margaery giggled and beckoned the others to join her. The girls followed her lead and the area erupted in polite laughter. Sansa followed while Lady Hewett glared.  

“Oh you two, I do love a good debate. It keeps the mind sharp.” Margaery gestured a serving girl forward. “Please bring the cheeses; I believe the mood calls for them.”

A few minutes later, Jon returned. He informed them that Lyanna and Arya would make it in time for the tourney but they would be left to their own devices.

“Hopefully, they do not get lost,” worried Lady Leonette.

“Oh, they are clever children. They will be fine,” Jon assured. He looked at the fuming Hewett and the embarrassed Fossoway. “What did I miss?”

***

“He wants us to act ‘carefree.’ What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Laugh? That’s what girls do here. They laugh a lot—even when things aren’t funny.” Arya paused. She grabbed her cousin by the shoulders and dragged her to the nearby bushes. “Look, there he is.”

Lyanna looked up to see an older man sitting in a gazebo, distracted by a pile of books and papers. He did not hear them, fortunately. He was utterly devoted to his work and every now and then, his eyebrows would furrow in displeasure or confusion.

While Lyanna watched the man for weaknesses—she was well-educated on the art of espionage by her mother, but Arya was a more tactical creature. Arya surveyed the area for assistance. When she found what she was looking for, she poked Lyanna with the stick.

“What?” Lyanna whispered.

“Here,” said Arya as tossed the weapon in the air. Lyanna caught it with a mild stumble.

“Let’s play some more. The serving girls saw us earlier. They won’t think it’s weird if we’re playing again.”

The plan was plausible. Lyanna and Arya resumed their earlier activities, laughing a little louder than they had before and trying to smile even though it was a struggle in between thrusts. Lyanna disarmed Arya after a few strokes. They were in front of the gazebo. From the corner of her eye, Arya noticed that Willas stopped what he was doing to watch.

“You do not concentrate,” instructed Lyanna. Arya winced. The Mormont was loud and a touch overdramatic. “You are bad. You are gripping too hard.”

“Can you show me how to grip it?” Arya asked. Her acting skills were miles above Lyanna. The younger girl was honest; years of living with an all-seeing mother made her attempts at deception futile.

“Are you girls having fun?”

Arya gave a sizable jump—the reaction expected of a child who was surprised. Jon wanted natural, after all. Shame about Lyanna, however, for the girl snapped her head to Willas as soon as his attention was caught.

Willas paid no mind to the odd reaction of the latter or pretended not to. “Aren’t you supposed to be having breakfast with my sister?”

“It was boring,” Lyanna spoke up. The best lies were ones that were half-truths—Arya taught her that.

“All they wanted to talk about was dresses and lords and I think they may have said something about their presentation ceremony…,” Arya added.

Willas chuckled. “I see.” He smiled at the two of them and it was brotherly and full of charm. Though neither of the girls were bloomed, they recognized his handsomeness.  “Well, have either of you had breakfast yet? I can call someone over with a platter and we can have a meal together.”

Lyanna and Arya looked at each other. They hid their triumphant grins. “Yes, but we can always eat more.”

“I love food,” agreed Lyanna. They skipped over and sat on both of his sides. Willas nodded at one of the waiting servants and they left to bring some snacks. “So who is your friend, Lady Arya?”

“This is Lyanna Mormont of House Mormont,” answered the Stark girl. “She is Jon cousin. Her mother is Lady Jyana Reed of House Reed and her father is Lady Mormont.”

Willas tipped his head to replace a bow. “Lord Willas Tyrell of House Tyrell. I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

While they waited for the food, Lyanna and Arya skimmed over his notes. Arya’s eyes widened at the sight of the numbers. “Are these the reports for Highgarden? You grew so much food this month!” Almost four times what the North makes combined.

Willas almost instinctively tore the page from her hand. He kept himself under control and reminded himself that no one was stupid enough to use Lord Stark’s daughter or his lover’s niece as spies. Besides, he reminded himself, this was a good time to test their worth.

“That’s the portion we collected from the west farms. I’m checking the amounts and comparing them to the taxes from the lords of that area. It’s easier to perform the review in sections than as a whole—better to keep track of it.”

Lyanna nodded. “So you’re investigating the houses for withholding funds.”

Willas raised an eyebrow at her bluntness. He chuckled. “You have a sharp tongue, my lady.”

Lyanna did not notice her folly. Perhaps because of her own youth, neither did Arya. She was fascinated by the numbers. Maester Luwin had not taught her this level of mathematics yet. 

“Plenty of lords withhold their actual profits to keep more for themselves or sell to other lands. It’s a consequence of the feudal system we live in. Mother was talking about it,” Lyanna pointed out. “Through your form of governance, you have to check for disloyalty or else you’d be losing twice the amount taxes you already are.”

“Oh?” Willas smiled warily. “Am I losing something now?”

“House Hewett,” Arya proclaimed out of nowhere. She pointed to his numbers on the page. “His numbers dropped dramatically from last year. Maester Luwin said the coastal areas were doing better because of the trade winds. If anything, he should be increasing or remaining steady—not diminishing.”

Willas took the page from the youngest Stark girl. He stared at it before grabbing his pen and making a note. The serving girl and boy arrived with their food. Two platters of cold meets, cheeses, fruits, and teas of several varieties. He dismissed them.

“How old are you two?”

“Nine,” said Arya. “Eight,” replied Lyanna.

Willas chuckled. “You two will be a fright when you get older.”  

“I hope so,” said Arya, giddily. “I want to be a warrior, like my brother.”

“Robb or Jon?”

Arya smirked. “Jon, because he is an omega and beautiful and no one stops him from doing anything.”

“You should work on your footwork then,” chided Lyanna as she bit into an apple slice. “When do you start training?”

“Soon!” Arya said petulantly, having forgotten about Willas for a brief moment.

Willas turned to Lyanna. “Have you learned swordsmanship, Lady Lyanna?”

Lyanna nodded. “Just the basics. My mother wants to send me to the Neck so that I can bloom there but father wants to keep me at Bear Island.”

“What do you want?” Arya asked.

Lyanna shrugged. “The crannogmen have so many secrets and hidden wonders. I don’t think a year or two would kill me. But my home is on Bear Island and it shall always be on Bear Island.”

“I wouldn’t mind being fostered at the Neck or Bear Island—but omegas rarely get fostered. We’re so unlucky,” whined Arya.

Willas chuckled. Lyanna turned her attention towards the heir. “And what about you, Lord Willas? What can you do?”

There was a challenge there. Willas heard it and so did Arya, who straightened and watch the events unfold as she chewed on her cheese and crackers.

“I’m afraid I am a boring man, Lady Lyanna. You will be disappointed to hear me speak on the matter.”

“I’ve never met a man who was truly boring and well aware of it,” Lyanna pointed out. “It’s quite interesting.”

Clever girls, both of them. From afar, he heard the cawing of his majestic fleet. He smirked and asked the two if they wanted to see something wonderful. They nodded. He set out his arm and waited for the creature to come. Out of nowhere, a gust of wind drew near and through the openings of the gazebo came forth a large and fearsome bird of prey. The girls gasped. 

“This is Goldclaw, one of my hawks. I breed them as a hobby, though I have found that my creatures have become in high demand. Please, if you’d like to take a look, come forth.”

The girls did not need to be told twice. Willas brought his arm further out. The girls cooed and awe at the sun-kissed wings and its wide, golden eyes. His beak was as hard as diamonds and his claws were as long as their faces. He was bigger than a typical hawk—and his face was gruesome in nature. The girls loved him.

Willas enjoyed watching them. He could tell that while they would never grow up to be conventional beauties, they would blossom quite nicely. He heard Arya Stark resembled her aunt and Lyanna Mormont was half a crannogman, well known for their exotic appeal. He’ll see her mother at the tourney and get a good look at the future.

“I bet if I put my finger in his mouth, he’ll snap it off,” said Arya, completely enraptured by the fine beast. Willas chuckled. She was not wrong.

It was a pity they were so young; Willas does not know if he could stall his grandmother’s sentencing for so long. But Arya was a Stark. A union to her would prove beneficial and it would be easier to convince his grandmother to hold off on a betrothal. Yet, while smaller omegas were supposed to take longer to bleed—crannogmen bodies were unknown.

“Here, let me try,” Lyanna spoke. Willas was so caught up in his thoughts he did not have time to warn her. Lyanna touched the top of his head and the creature purred like a kitten under her hand. She smiled and stroked his beak. Lyanna opened her mouth and bells came out. The creature sang like a lovebird.

Lyanna and Arya giggled.

Lyanna, Willas sighed, was a mystery. She knew things about the crannogmen and the Neck, a region that was poor but martially strong and whose survival methods are legendary. His spies knew nothing about them except the bits and pieces from the crannogmen who married outside the Neck. 

Willas decided to play a game. “Do you like riddles?”

Arya and Lyanna looked at each other again. They must be close friends, Willas wondered, to speak without words. “Why?” Lyanna asked.  

“I want to give you a riddle and if you solve it, you will get a reward.”

“What’s the reward?” Arya asked. She was grinning.

“A gift of your choosing—whatever you please.”

“Whatever we please?” Lyanna raised an eyebrow.

Willas pretended to think for a moment before smirking. “Yes, whatever you please. I trust you two are honorable women—you will not demand something I cannot afford and make me an oathbreaker, will you?”

“No, Lord Willas, I would not,” Arya answered innocently. The two girls burst into giggles. Even Willas scoffed.

“What are the conditions?” Lyanna asked.

“Well, you have to solve it by the end of the tourney, particularly at the last feast. And the demand must be made immediately, I don’t like to hold onto debts for long.”

“Agreed,” said Arya. “What’s the riddle?”

Willas thought for a second.

“Just tell us already,” Lyanna interrupted.

Willas shook his head at her impatience. “Alright. You must come to me, holding the hand of a loved one but never touching their skin. One of you must wear my sigil while the other must wear nothing.” Willas stood up and leaned in. “And when you present yourself, you must carry something that will never die while your mouth is filled with poison.”

“That is impossible!” Arya argued. “That makes no sense.”

“Then you must get creative,” said Willas. He stood up and collected his things. “I wish you the best of luck.”

Arya groaned when he left. “We should have waited to hear the riddle before agreeing.”

“No, this was fair. We lose nothing by not solving it.” Lyanna glanced at her. “You are welcomed to not participate.”

Arya could sniff out blood in the water like a shark. “Is that a challenge?”

“Of course it is.”

Arya was taken back. Then, a wide grin replaced her face. “I’m definitely going to solve it first.”

“You’ll have to beat me,” Lyanna said. “And I don’t lose.”

The two girls laughed—genuinely this time—and raced out of the garden to find Jon. They had so much to report to him and so much reading to do.

***

While the omegas occupied their time, Robb was on the field, adorning his southern garbs and grasping for air like a drowned dog. He and Ser Rodrick were familiarizing themselves with the soil.

“The ground is softer here. It might slow him down.”

“He was fine on the road,” assured Robb. He looked back and saw the horse staring off to the horizon.  

“Aye, I have no doubt he shall do well.” Ser Rodrick leaned in. “Besides, with your skill, none of these green boys have a chance.”

Robb chuckled in response. His laughter was overshadowed by the crowd of giggling omegas crowding around Ser Loras. He and a few of the knights were coming back from their training and getting their horses into the stables in time for the novice tournament. The Tyrell boy stopped to entertain the populace.

Robb scoffed at him. It was just his luck that Ser Loras caught his disapproval. His eyes narrowed.

“Have I offended you, Lord Robb?” He asked as he walked towards him.

The Stark was never one to bite his tongue in public to an illicit remark made in private. “No, my lord. I am simply fascinated by the leniency you have towards dallying. It is a good thing you remain unattached. I imagined if you had an omega, he would surely be bristling with insecurity.”

The accusation struck a nerve. The omegas stopped smiling and watched the interaction with vigilant eyes.

“I'll have you know,” Loras told him, with subtle rage in his tone, “That I am courting an omega, Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

“Then he must be quite a character,” Robb responded smoothly. “To allow his alpha to be so careless with his affections. If I had an omega, I would grant him complete devotion on my part.”

Loras grabbed him by the too tight collar. Ser Rodrick beckoned the boy to calm down. “This is not the time to fight,” he reminded them. "There are bystanders about."

Loras let go but his anger was still present. He returned Robb’s scoff with one of his own. “Perhaps you should be lecturing _your_ father on loyalty. I hear he is quite free with his _affections_ ,” Loras mocked.

Robb lunged at the boy. Ser Rodrick slapped his hand on Robb’s shoulder before the boy could go any further than a needle’s length. Loras chuckled and walked away, earning the last laugh in the end. Unable to let anything slide, not even with Ser Rodrick’s advice, he called out to Loras and said he hoped he enjoyed watching the tourney.

“And when it is your turn to joust, Ser Loras, I will watch you—right by Lord Renly’s side. We are both meant to be lords, after all.”

The reminder of their statuses humbled Loras. He snarled and walked off without response, even ignoring a floundering omega or two. Ser Rodrick shook his head.

“I thought your father gave you his cool blood—it seems I was mistaken. You are as hot-headed as your uncle.”

“Surely I am better than that,” Robb suggested. “Besides, I couldn’t let him walk off. We wouldn’t meet on fighting grounds today; he’s in the advance tournament.”

Ser Rodrick sighed. “Maybe you should count your paces.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Robb gestured to the riding grounds. “Because then I’d look like those fools.”

Rodrick followed his gaze and saw a group of squires getting into fights about missing their counting. The master-of-arms was exasperated by the sight.  

“Robb, go put on some proper clothes and armor. You have a tourney to win.”

***

Lady Margaery’s private box was the most desire seating of any lady of the Reach. No one knew who Lady Margaery would invite until they arrived at the tourney. There was no way to track the Tyrell’s mood—girls who’ve been attending her tea parties for years were jilted out of nowhere and even first cousins risked being excluded. They did not know until one of Lady Margaery’s waiting attendants offered to escort them to the box.

When they arrived, Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, and Jon were given precedent. Lady Margaery was thorough and even offered Lady Lyanna a seat. The Mormont girl was surprised—she’d didn’t even realize she’d been acknowledged. She refused and choose to stay with her mother and the other Northerners.

Lady Stark was expected to sit amongst the elder Highgarden elite, where she would be sharing the best view with her fellow liege lords and ladies. Ser Loras sat with Lord Renly and was more affectionate than ever, lauding him with praises and kisses, feeding him like a babe. Some were aghast by the public display but Lord Renly basked in it.

More girls filed in the box. Jon caught the heated glare of Lady Hewett and her friends as they were turned away. Lady Margaery asked Sansa to sit beside her—cementing her beloved status. Sansa was so excited. Jon smiled and stifled the jealousy in his heart. He knew Sansa loved him but he recognized that Margaery was the older sister she always wanted. He could not fault her for that—Margaery was a lovely girl who never said a bad word about him and did not intend to.

She was also extremely clever—and for that, Jon was wary.

They waited for the first round. The announcer proclaimed that the first round was between “Lord Robert Stark of House Stark” and “Lord Alester Norcross of House Florent.”

Jon held onto Sansa’s hand from above and on his right was Arya. They wished their brother the best of luck as he came onto the field. They had good manners not to shout though were inwardly cheering to the heavens.

Robb’s steed dashed forward with a frightening amount of speed. Northern horses were large and trained to handle coarse ground and jagged landscape. Their bodies were heavy which should have been a problem if they were not already used to running across the piercing snow. The Florent boy was overwhelmed by the speed and the strength. He fell as soon as the point landed on his shield.  

His siblings and even his mother, a true southern lady, could not contain their happiness. Fortunately, their cheers were overwhelmed by the rousing approval of the entire northern camp.

Lord Tyrell laughed joyously. “Your son is off to a good start!” He praised.

Lady Catelyn smiled. “Yes, he is.”

The wine poured generously throughout the tournament—Lord Tyrell bared no ill will to the constant wins by the northern party. Both his sons were in the advance tournament and carried no humiliation from the losses. And who was he to deny all these fine, northern alphas their winnings. He trembled at the sight of their large bodies and dark features on his grounds.

The crowd, despite their animosity, were intrigued by the northern forces. They were brutal and violent and spared no mercy, even to their closest friends.

The tourney continued until the final two rounds were filled with northerners. When Robb defeated the man, he confirmed that he was going to place at least second in the tourney. Whoever won the next round would go up against him. He drank his water and watched.

The announcer blew his match horn. “Now to see who shall be entering the final round. I call forth Lord Jon Umber of House Umber and Lady Dacey Mormont of House Mormont!”

The announcer stepped aside while Dacey and Smalljon prepared their positions. Lady Jyana gripped her daughter’s hand.

“Mother?”

Jyana kissed her daughter’s head. “It’s fine Lyanna, pray for your sister.”

Smalljon Umber was almost twice the size of any man in the tourney but Dacey was one of the few that looked like the same species. He was stronger than her but not as skilled on the horse. The creature was beginning to tire from lugging the man around. Dacey counted on that as an advantage and prepared her lance. When the two stampeded towards each other, it was as great as a battle. People held their breath as both lances hit their respective targets. Smalljon’s javelin pierced through Dacey’s shield, leaving splinters in the air and Dacey’s body was thrown onto the ground.

Jyana jumped up from her seat and cried out “Dacey!” at the top of her lungs. She was heaving death until the younger woman stood up. Lyanna grabbed her hand.

“Mother, she is alright,” she soothed. People were staring at them.

Jyana composed herself and sat down. She was shaking. A few men came out to help the Mormont woman up. She shook off their help. Jyana turned away when Dacey looked at her, a longing gaze on her expression.

***

The final round was between Smalljon and Robb.

No one expected Robb to win.

Jon laughed himself to tears when his brother lost.

“I cannot believe we thought he could win against an Umber,” Arya commented dryly.

“Arya!” Sansa scolded. “That is our brother!”

“Who I believed would have genuinely won—had Smalljon not decided to participate.” Arya shrugged. “Look, even Jon is laughing.”

“I cannot believe I thought he would win,” Jon shook his head. “What was I thinking?”

“Jon! Not you, too!” Sansa was horrified by the lack of support.

The three directed their attention to the end of the tourney. Smalljon was handed a laurel of golden roses to crown his Queen of Love and Beauty. Without hesitance, he rode his horse to his final competitors and with more charm thought possible for an Umber, he delivered it to Dacey Mormont.

Robb watched with resignation as Dacey lunged on top of the younger man and toppled him off the horse. The Northerners cheered even louder than they did the entire tourney for this was true entertainment. The southerners were horrified but could not stop watching.

Dacey wrestled the laurel out of his grip. She grabbed her horse and almost tramples her competitor where he laid. Robb, like a true gentleman, helped his friend up. The two of them watch Dacey ride to stand where her good mother sat. The older woman held her breath. Her green eyes burned at her good daughter—a grave contrast to her original ignorance. She was daring her not to do it; this was their lives at stake.

Dacey took the laurel and placed it on her little sister’s head. She held Lyanna’s hand up and praised this tourney’s Princess of Love and Beauty.

When the cheering went down, Lyanna took off the laurel. She touched a petal of the golden roses—real roses gilded with low quality gold. She looked at Lord Willas who glanced back her. She returned her attention to her prize and grinned.

She would indeed “get creative.”

***

Jon and Robb choose to return to the camp that night. Smalljon used his earnings to celebrate with his people. His dragons bought liters of fine wine and ale and good cheer throughout. Only Domeric and two other knights would participate in tomorrow’s tourney—the rest were allowed to drink their weight.

Jon sat beside Robb and leaned against his shoulder.

“I was so looking forward to a golden crown,” said Jon.

Robb chuckled and drank his wine. “Next tourney, I promised.”

Jon scoffed. “No thank you.” Robb raised an eyebrow. Jon took his hand and entangled their fingers.

“Life is short; I do not want to waste ours in the South. I miss our bed and our springs and your presence beside mine at night. We can’t do that if you partake in more tourneys.”

Robb chuckled and kissed his little brother’s head. “As you wish.”

Their tender moment was interrupted by a familiar presence. Theon settled in between the two. “What are you doing forgiving his loss so easily? We should be condemning him with our disappointment!”

Jon laughed and Robb scowled. “Sod off, Theon.”

Theon chuckled and drank his wine loosely. He handed the empty cup to Robb. “Hold this, Domeric will have kittens if he sees me drinking.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Domeric is as tightly wound as a maester’s asshole. Why do you indulge him?”

“Why don’t you join us tomorrow at the castle?” Robb suggested to keep the attention off Theon’s unsettling marriage. “You could stay in Jon’s bed?”

Theon wished he could take the offer. “I have to stay at the camps where Domeric can watch over me like a proper husband to be.” He stole Jon’s share of ale. “I’m going outside to somber up before Domeric finds me.”

They wished him luck. Jon handed him a dinner knife.

“For any wandering deviants,” advised Jon.

Theon ruffled up his curls. “Thanks, bastard.”

Both boys scowled at his poor humor.

***

Despite his intoxication, Theon was vigilant about not being seen by Domeric or his men. He drifted further into the woods where the light of the moon still shined through but company was nonexistence. There were no creatures this close to the city and he doubted anyone followed him or else he would be on his back by now. He observed the sky and stars and wondered how people could live so long under such meek creatures. In North, they were huge, unburden by filth and pollution. Soon, his vision blurred, the alcohol taking effect.

Theon closed his eyes to forget. When he opened them, he prayed for a clearer landscape.

He received a hand on his throat instead. Before he could scream, a rough and aching voice whispered in his ear and commanded him to be silent. All Theon’s instincts told him to stand down and obey his alpha.

“You will not say a thing,” hissed Ramsay. Theon was breathing so heavily and he could feel his cunt gush with each word. Ramsay grinded his hips against the older boy. His cock was already out and large. “I’m going to let you go and you will take off that dress of yours. Do you understand?”

Theon nodded. Ramsay let go. His reward was a slap to the face. “Nodding doesn’t get me anywhere. Take off that fucking dress!”

Theon did as he was told. Like a whore, he displayed his breasts and untouched cunt to the bastard waiting for the worst. Ramsay licked his lips and admired the fine form before him. He latched onto the bare nipple and bit down. Theon yelped like a wounded dog.

Ramsay shoved two fingers up his ass and let go of the nipple. “Don’t fucking scream. Gag yourself however way you can. I’m not letting anybody interrupt us because your cocksucking mouth is so desperate, it can’t keep quiet.”

Theon covered his mouth with his hands. In between his muffled moans, he gained the courage to ask about Ramsay’s presence. "I thought you were gone." 

Ramsay continued thrusting into with his fingers. “Why are you fucking complaining?”

“I’m not!” Theon protested as the perfect spot was hit. He came all over Ramsay’s fingers. “I…you were casted away. I…” Theon missed him so fucking much, he came at the thought of him sometimes.  “I’d thought I’d never see you again and you…”

“You think I leave you alone while my fucking brother gets the first taste of you?” Ramsay shook his head. “No, you were mine before you were yourself. I own you.” He played with Theon’s clit. “These are mine. Your holes, your breasts, your body; they are mine. My fucking father can send me to Esos and I’d still find you.”

The pathetic look on Theon’s face did something to Ramsay’s willpower. He kissed Theon, all fangs and passion, and felt the boy submit. When they parted, Theon was still aching.

“I watched you this entire time, waiting for us to be alone. I’ll let him win the first few battles, let him stew in his petty victories.” Ramsay laughed. “But then I’ll take you; I’ll take everything from him.”

Theon thought about Domeric’s warning, of all the omegas Ramsay abused to his darkest pleasure. The sickening part was that while Theon believed him; he didn’t care. Those whores and peasants were not as beautiful as him nor as loyal to Ramsay—that’s why they lost his attention. Theon could keep Ramsay occupied. He would bear him a dozen of his heirs; this was his fate and Theon wanted this madness more than anything in the world.

Theon wrapped his hands around Ramsay and pulled him closer. “Take me,” he begged. “Fill me with your child so that Domeric never gets the chance.”

With no more patience to waste on conversation, Ramsay stroke his cock a good number of times before a bulging knot came into view. He loved this more than anything—ravishing omega cunts with a heavy knot in hand. He placed his bulge against Theon’s tight rim before slamming it inside, creating a nice, temporary gape for his eyes to take pleasure in. A snarl escaped his lips as he grounded himself in deeper and split Theon’s hole further apart. He could not tell what he enjoyed more—Theon’s uncontrollable wails or the thought that he had beaten his brother to this virgin’s omega outstretched cunt.“Fuck,” Ramsay swore. “I knew you’d be good. I’d knew you’d be the perfect, tight bitch to have my children.”

“Fuck,” Ramsay swore. “I knew you’d be good. I’d knew you’d be the perfect, tight bitch to have my children.”

Theon could not comprehend his words. He was too busy basking in the pleasure. His muscles clenched around Ramsay’s knot and had another orgasm from feeling Ramsay’s cock inside him. He could not believe how good he felt.

“So good, so good,” Theon moaned over and over again. His eyes were rolling back and his mouth was drooling. Ramsay laughed in between his moans. He could not believe how well his bitch omega was taking it.

“You want it harder?” He asked. “You want me fucking you all night, turning your pussy raw until your gaping? You want that?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Theon shouted.

Ramsay fucked deeper into and was mesmerized by the way Theon’s tit bounced. Ramsay grabbed one and squeezed until bruises decorated the breast. Theon cried out. Ramsay loved hearing each moan. He would dedicate an ass-raping session to punish him later, but fortunately, his boys would keep all wandering guests out.

Ramsay took in the desperation on Theon’s face and used it as motivation to give Theon a heavier pounding. He was pulling Theon’s lips inside and out with how hard he was going at him. Theon took it all with stride. He fucking loved being treated like the object he was. Ramsay laughed as he suckled a breast. He could not believe he was lucky enough to meet an omega who knew his worth as a cum bucket. Someone beautiful and submissive and completely his.

By the time Ramsay was done with him, Theon was nothing more than a limp container of cum. His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red. Ramsay’s knot deflated enough to be freed. The bastard refused to leave the heat of his sweet milker and let his release sluggishly leak from Theon’s cunt.

“…ove you…” Theon whispered. “…babies…”

The older boy was out of it.

Fuck it, so was Ramsay.

“You are a fucking whore and I will never leave you,” he declared as he fingered Theon’s ass. He kissed Theon’s forehead. “You’re going to be mine until the day you fucking die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I redid my research and realized that (canonically) Lyanna was born in 290 AC, making her Bran’s age not Rickon’s. I edit the previous chapters. 
> 
> And yes, what Robb is wearing is the blue outfit from Cinderella. Sue me. I had to. I really, really had to. 
> 
> I have no clue who is going to win the advanced tourney. It is between Domeric, Loras, and Garlan. Please tell me your preferred rankings. Please. Help. Vote.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness! Here is chapter 14!  
> I may never write a tourney scene.  
> The Dragonstone Baratheons are mentioned.  
> Loras and Renly have some tourney fun and so do Jon and Robb.

When Theon returned to the banquet hall that night, his eyes glazed over from the brutal lovemaking. Ramsay had him on his hands and knees, fucked him like a dog while his breasts swung in the air. Through the sharp, squelching noises, Theon heard the vivid moans of Ramsay's companions. They called him names depicting him as Ramsay's 'tight cunt' and 'stupid slut.' His stomach churned when he realized they were fondling themselves over him; all of them wanted to fuck him but could never have one because he belonged to Ramsay and Ramsay did not share. He tightened his thighs together to control the throbbing in his cunt. He wanted nothing more than to return to the woods for another round. Jon made him another offer to stay at Highgarden but responded with another refusal and a satisfied smile.

Theon tightened his thighs together to control the throbbing in his cunt. He wanted nothing more than to return to the woods for another round. Jon made him another offer to stay at Highgarden but responded with another refusal and a satisfied smile.

“Nonsense. This is when Domeric needs me by his side the most.” He licked his lips. “He is going to be my husband. I want to make sure each day is filled with my support and devotion.”

The maturity of the answer startled Jon, who expected Theon's willpower to falter at the repeated offer. “Very well,” Jon answered. “I’ll inform the maids not to prepare a room.” Theon nodded absentmindedly. He continued to drink from his goblet, ignoring Jon’s suspicious stare.

The following morning, most of their camp was hungover and weak. Some were still leaning on each other for support. Domeric remained resilient—he had the good sense not to partake in liquor binges before his tournament. He was pleased to discover Theon at the Bolton tent without his intervention. When he arrived, he kissed Domeric on the cheek. Nothing indecent, but a favorable response between betrothed. Domeric concluded that he made a wise decision yesterday towards their relationship. The boy sat by his side without commentary and remained poised throughout their meal. The image of a quiet, dutiful wife.

His father looked curious but pleased by Theon’s sudden taming. Domeric fought the smug expression off his face. After breakfast, Theon stayed by Domeric’s side while they walked to the tourney grounds. They made light, innocent conversation—nothing distracting or insensible. Pure drivel but the kind of small talk that was soothing rather than annoying. The advance tournament began in the morning as opposed to the afternoon of the novice round. There, Theon poured Domeric a cup of water and massaged his shoulders. When the participants were expected to make their way for the opening ceremony, Theon publicly showed his support to the Bolton by kissing his helmet.

“Good luck, my lord,” he told him with a demure smile. Domeric responded by kissing his hand. The gesture was common amongst lovers, and it gained the support of several audience members who cheered their affection. Young love, they claimed with a smile on their face.

Theon walked away while Domeric rode out to the front. He climbed up the stairs to Margaery’s box—the premium seats for omegas—where Jon was waiting for him.

“Your behavior is commendable this morning. Last night celebration has done wonders for your mood.”

Theon cast his eyes onto his betrothed’s form. “I was certainly reminded of my duties as a wife.” Theon smiled at Jon. “And that is to support my husband.”

Jon stared at him. Without a word, he redirected his attention to the tourney. Lord Tyrell was making a grand speech, filled with flowery language and launching into fifty phrases that could have been said in one. From behind him, Margaery praised Theon’s selection.

“Domeric has a good chance at winning. His performances in the past tourneys have been spectacular and I heard he is a step away from becoming a knight.”

Theon tried not to sneer at her. She was pointing out the obvious as if she was more than some witless brat. Keeping his thoughts to himself, Theon thanked Margaery with a proud smile for her kind observation. He noticed the stares of the audience and relished at the ferocity of their jealousy. Domeric was not handsome but he was tolerable with no scandals to name of. He had a reputation for being skilled with a lance and some say he was half-horse himself. Many of these southern twats wanted to be in Theon’s position. They wanted to be the one to kiss Domeric’s helmet, walk down rivers with him and bear his children. Theon grinned. They should be envious, he thought. They should want to be him: a future lord and the bearer of heirs.

To the pleasure of his audience, Lord Tyrell finished his speech. His box was sat high and he was surrounded by many high-ranking lords and ladies. His husband was by his side and there was a plate within arm’s reach, ready to feed her beloved spouse in case he got peckish. Lord Tarly was beneath them, looking visibly upset. His eldest son was unable to qualify for the advance tournament and his youngest scored well but was not able to unhorse a Northerner in the novice tourney. Lady Stark was present in his section, and besides her was Robb, looking every bit indignant that instead of having Jon by his side, he was given Willas.

Jon laughed when Lord Tyrell accidentally stumbled getting back to his seat. His hand tactfully landed on Robb’s shoulder and lingered on his fine form. Robb was encouraged to help the portly omega to his chair. He did so with a smile and that became his death sentence as Lord Tyrell took a moment to fondle Robb’s form. Jon could hear him now: 'Oh, what muscles you have! Oh, I wonder if you'll grow bigger than your father!' The grin on his face could have looked coquettish had it he been in his teens, but the omega had aged to a point where his flirtations appeared deviant. His wife paid his molestations no mind and pinched her omega’s cheeks for being such a rakish creature. They giggled and flirted with each other throughout the tourney. If Lord Tarly was displeased before, he was equipped for vengeance now. 

Without the northerner presence, the participants appeared to have a taste for theatrics. Not one to be upstaged by any of the young lovers, Loras rode his horse over to Lord Renly and delivered him a bouquet of roses before commanding his horse to rise to lift him up for a kiss. The people clapped at the trick. Loras grinned before sending Robb a smug look. The younger boy ignored him, much to his disappointment. He leaned over and praised Lord Renly for the roses. The older man blushed causing Loras to rile himself up. He headed his mare to the tournament lines.

People were smart during the first day. No one overexerted themselves and aimed to receive the highest points rather than use up their energy to unhorse their opponents. Unlike yesterday, the tourney was without the eagerness of youth. Tomorrow would become more brutal and by the third day, they would all be out for blood.

They continue competing until lunch. Domeric scored the highest for the first half of day one. And Loras and Garlan gained a significant amount of points—almost enough to guarantee their position for the final rounds. When they ended for their break, Jon was accosted by Jyana, who asked if they’ve seen Lyanna.

“She said she was uninterested in the tourney and wanted to explore.” Jyana sighed. “I told her not to leave my side.”

“I’m sure she’ll turn up,” Jon soothed. He glanced over at Robb who was distracted. Lord Tyrell seemed eager to drag him off somewhere. Robb sent Jon an apologetic look. Shaking his head, Jon turned to his aunt. “I’ll help you look for her,” he volunteered. He told Theon to warn Robb of his absence at the lunch table, which the boy begrudgingly accepted to obey.

“I’m not your servant,” he complained. The crannogmen walked away before he could be heard.

***

The inner rings of Highgarden contained a complex of towers, courtyards, colonnades and statuaries with greenery spreading across their fields, ivy, grapevines and climbing roses entwined through the building walls. The plethora of gardens and arbors are filled with flowers and not to be beaten by the Martells; the Tyrells indulged in pools, fountains and man-made waterfalls visible throughout the complex. The outermost regions of Highgarden were the "briar maze", a famous labyrinth of hedges that served to entertain the guests and inhabitants while deterring the enemies from their access. Enemies have died wandering around these parts while the guards were instructed to master the shrubs in their heads. They were not given permission to have maps, less such documents fell into the wrong hands.

For obvious reasons, people were told to avoid the woods surrounding the castle. There were beasts there, big cats and bigger bears, wild boars with tusks as sharp as knives. Lyanna hoped the rumors were true. She entered the woods on her own accord, bearing nothing but her prized laurel.

***

His brother's lack of presence was unpleasant but necessary. Robb was reluctant to admit as such. Their dining table was out in the open; members of elite, high-ranking noble houses were seated with them, including the ever conservative and militant Lord Tarly, who was glaring at his liege lord like he was suggesting a coup d’état on the crown. There was solace in the knowledge that Jon was tucked away under his aunt’s wing and not in the company of a fervent lord or captivated guard. Robb hung onto his fleeting optimism like a lifeline.

The finalists of the novice tourney were asked to join them on Lord Tyrell’s bequest. Much to Lord Tarly’s frustration, the liege lord of Highgarden took advantage of his position by acting like a lovelorn omega on the precipice of a heat—never mind that Lord Tyrell’s most recent heat ended a winter ago.

The northerners, who were the victims of such attentions, found his antics annoying but endearing at the same time. Lord Tyrell was a generous, jovial spirit who was so tragic in his flirtations that one must be amused by his failed attempts rather. They could not bring themselves to be offended. For the sake of his happiness, his husband flaunted the northerners’ best assets one after the other.

“Oh dear wife, look at Lady Dacey’s fine breasts! Why I must say, there’s more muscle than fat in those pecs! Oh how wondrous female alphas are in the North; if only mine are so hard! These are like rocks on a plate.” She said in good cheer. She grabbed the finalist by the arm and brought her over to her husband to inspect. Dacey was unused to compliments nor was she experienced in dealing with such vapid attentions.

Lord Tyrell wasted no time fondling his new prey. On his left, Smalljon Umber took a seat while his father remained out of harm’s way. The Lord of the Last Hearth had a war's worth of intuition to avoid danger and an omega with wandering hands.

“Nonsense! Everyone knows my husband has the finest mounds of the Highgarden fields.” Despite his protests, Lord Tyrell lunged at the offered teats. “Oh, but this is a noteworthy chest. And just enough fat for a good squeeze.” He smiled up at the towering woman and his lighthearted expression was so praiseworthy—like a child overlooking a field of roses—that Dacey could not will herself to hate him. “You are an exemplary specimen.”

Dacey sighed. “Thank you, my lord.” She returned to her seat. When several of her companions laughed, she shot them a bloodthirsty glare to shut them up.

Lord Tyrell remained in high spirits. He returned to groping Smalljon’s bicep, admiring his magnitude and questioning his dimensions in other matters. “My, you must have a ton’s worth of muscle in this arm alone! Tell me, how do men in your lands get so big? I bet you're just filled up everywhere.”

While Smalljon spoke of his daily duties, the Lady Hightower laughed with the other wives and husbands. She was a charming thing; pretty as a portrait and a master at keeping moods lighthearted and bright. When Lord Tarly made a passive remark about her wife’s frivolities, she never lost her dignity. “Oh, this? These are merely blithe amusements wives play when they get bored. I have nothing to fear.”

“But your reputation,” Lord Tarly muttered. “With all due respect, Lady Hightower, a husband who cannot reign his wife’s frivolities risks a cuckold.”

There was a pause; the atmosphere threatened to sour.

Lady Hightower was never one to let a crowd spoil. As a child, her maesters would berate her for not focusing on her studies; she failed their tests on maths and literature, never read a book on history in her life, but she was a queen in the area that mattered: reputation. A natural-born socialite, Lady Hightower learned how to maneuver a mob to bend to her will and challenge a septon to praise her plight. As far as she was concerned, there was no better currency than a good rumor or the credit of a careful tongue.

“Lord Tarly, you never cease to amuse me!” Lady Hightower laughed in good humor. She grasped onto her husband’s hand—bringing his attention away from the molested giant—and cradled his cheek. “Though I am reluctant to reveal my age, I feel inclined to offer my wisdom to you. Years of marriage has given me the foresight to wedded bliss and it is selfish to keep my opinions at bay.” She waved a hand at the curious lords and ladies. “The secret to catching an omega’s eye is no different than the law of a successful marriage. For both, the key is to maintain the omega’s happiness.” She offered a tiny kiss to Lord Tyrell’s cheek in which he noticeably preened. ‘When I met my darling husband, I was far from the strongest or the wisest of his suitors—in fact, some of the people on this table took that position from me!”

Lord Tarly glared.

“But throughout our time together, he understood that if we were to wed, there was no one more inclined to devote themselves to his happiness.” Her hand slipped on top of his shoulders as she massaged into his sore spots. He moaned at her diligent hands. The Lady of Highgarden was an expert in that area as well. “There’s a delightful proverb about the matter. _Make your omega smile every day and he or she shall never stray_!”

The entire table chuckled. Their liege lord and lady kissed in front of their guests; blatant about their loyalty towards one another. Lady Hightower returned to host the party with the confidence expected of a woman of her prestige. She went on to say that she enjoyed Lord Tyrell’s flirtations. “His nature becomes more frolicsome whenever he catches a whiff a virile alpha. Ideal for breeding,” she told them all.Their laughter became more pronounced as people bit back their contentions with awkward smiles.

Lord Tyrell blushed. "Oh you naughty thing!" Their laughter became more pronounced as people bit back their contentions with awkward smiles.

Willas smiled into his glass. As the heir of a liege lord, he took a seat beside Robb. “Father and mother have been opting for another child since Margaery's heat. They fret constantly about having an empty nest.” He leaned into Robb’s ear so that they could talk amongst themselves. “They have high hopes despite my mother’s age.”

Robb took a sip of his own wine. “I’m sure your lack of wedding plans does nothing to dissuade them.”

Willas laughed. “True.” He glanced across the long table. “My parents do give me something to look forward to. Perhaps, your family will give me purpose to break my celibacy.”

“What?” Robb’s head snapped in the direction of the Highgarden heir.

Willas ignored Robb’s shock to give his mother attention. Lord Tyrell, drunk on another glass of wine, announced his hopes of an omega. “Another lovely girl, or a pretty boy to spoil rotten. I can think of nothing better than opening up another room to deck with dresses and dolls.” 

More condescension filled the table. Many of them laughed and lauded Lord Tyrell with their best wishes. Some had the audacity to scoff silently at his foolishness. Willas loathed their smug expressions. He heard what they said about his mother. His beaten leg made it hard for him to stand so he made his voice loud enough to hear. “Perhaps,” he suggested, the nonchalance rolling off his tongue, “Mother, you should consider fathering a child. I read that in Essos, alpha married other alphas. Female alphas have children all the time. And it is not unheard of for male omegas to sire children. Sperm tends to outlive the egg.”

There were many guests who attempted to smile, those who wished to perceive the statement as a joke. They did not dare to laugh before another, high-ranking lord did, in fear of displaying off immaturity or ignorance. After more hesitance, no one dared speak.

“ _Dothraki_ ,” Lord Tarly said at last. His growl broke the silence. “You are talking about the _Dothraki_.”

Willas turned his attention to the Lord of Horn Hill. “Oh, that’s right. The _khals_ take female alphas to become their wives because they believe it will produce stronger warriors. Thank you for reminding me.”

“You want us to mimic the customs of horse fuckers?” Lord Tarly accused. The man was a noted traditionalist who upheld the classic standards of masculinity and femininity as good as law. Willas was bored with him. His redeeming qualities consisted of his exemplary military mind and the sole benefit of his conservatism was his loyalty to the Reach. He abhorred the conditions he ruled and was ruled under—being the bannerman of an omega overlord who would rather focus on fucking than fighting.

Lord Tarly was in the majority that wished for Garlan’s ascension to the Seat of Hightower. His younger brother was a great warrior—the best in their family in regards to swordsmanship—and his humility and silence made him a preferred leader over Willas, especially by the more powerful personalities. The second son would never dare claim Willas’ territory; Willas was adamant about instilling the principles of love and loyalty when the threat aroused. He laughed to hide his bitterness. “No, of course not.” Willas remained level-headed. “I am merely mimicking your wisdom, Lord Tarly. You are a fine commander and I admire your shrewdness in regards to warfare—the way you adapt combat techniques from across the seas to your own military ploys is ingenious, revolutionary almost. Surely, you cannot fault me for following your lead.”

Lord Tarly was not amused by the insinuation. Robb noted that a flicker of respect came to the man’s eye. He prized courage above all and though Willas' leg limped when he walked, his balls hung heavy and low. 

“You have a sharp mind.” Before Willas could thank the man, he ended his note bitterly. “Let us hope you do not disappoint us in a similar manner to your predecessor.”

The accusation released a tremor of disbelief and outrage. From the side, his wife grasped onto his arm and whispered something in his ear one could only assume to be a desperate plea for an apology. Randyll Tarly chose well when he courted her, thought Willas, for she was the portrait of omegan perfection. She would never dare disobey her lord’s command in public—though, from the will in her eyes; he could tell that even the Lord of Horn Hill would not escape a chilled shoulder when he came home.

Garlan and Loras made a show of themselves. They never failed to defend their beloved mother.

“How dare you imply such callousness in front of my mother? He is your lord!” Loras shouted, unsheathing his steel in violent rage. The whole table gasped. Willas bit back a smirk at their reactions.

Robb noticed his humor without saying a word. He watched the event play out. 

Garlan, who lacked Loras’ dramatism, kept a hand on his hilt. He told Lord Tarly to stand if he believed his own fallacy. “Come at me if you dare.”

Willas replaced his instinctive scoff. His sister was chatting with the omegas at another table nearby, but she, like the others stopped to watch. He sent her a message with his eyes. All three sons have spoken, but the daughter remained silent. He would not have that. He gestured her to come over and make her peace.

Margaery was startled by the silent command. She was never one to back down from a challenge—nor was she to refuse a mission from her brother. She stood up and walked towards the table, her hands clasping together for applause. She directed her attention to Lord Tarly.

Willas waited to see what his sister could offer. The Lord of Horn Hill would never lose his cool amongst the presence of two green boys. The sight of them bearing steel resembled children wielding wooden sticks rather than opponents of war to him. A woman of merit—that was a villain unmet.

“You are so good to us, Lord Tarly,” Margaery praised. She placed a guiding hand on both her brothers' shoulders and pushed them back to their seats. She walked towards her parents and settled beside her father’s side—a position meant to imply she was dependent on their protection. Willas was proud; barely fifteen and his sister was a master at stagecraft. 

“Being liege lords, the ruler of this fine kingdom, we are used to the sycophants of society. It is a sad thing,” Margaery said as she cast her gaze downwards. “They pour praises in our goblets after spitting in our pitchers. You are not like that. You display your displeasure openly but not once has your behavior suggest betrayal, Lord Tarly. A true man of honesty and honor. One we need in the Reach.” Margaery picked up her stare to meet his. “Though I do not appreciate your tactlessness, I understand that they are spoken, not of malice but, a jest between companions who have the highest regard for each other. After all, you've known my parents for so long. I like to think they can call you friend.”

The branch bearing his salvation was hanging above the lord’s head. Lord Tarly was not a foolish man. “You have an ear for conversation,” he told her.

Lord Tyrell perked up. Ah, he thought, Lord Tarly’s behavior was all an elaborate show—'a busting of balls' as one would say. He heard the game was common amongst warriors and cheerily drank his wine in bliss.

Margaery kissed her mother and father on the cheek before retreating to her seat. She casted Willas a sly smile. He tipped his wine glass in her favor.

“Your sister is remarkable,” Robb complimented; his tone even.

Willas drank the last of his cup and held it out for a serving girl to fill. “She is the pride of Highgarden.”

Robb scoffed. “I thought your brother claimed that prize.”

Willas was amused the counter. He stood up, much to the surprise of his fellow heirs. His leg throbbed with irritation. “Many at this table may have come to certain unfavorable conclusions following this interaction. I want to raise my glass towards my compassionate and generous mother and my jubilant and mindful father. You are all fortunate to be residents of the Reach. Any other lord would have placed Lord Tarly on trial for such disrespect.” He spared a knowing glance over at Lord Tarly. The man would have admired the severe reaction—he thought their policies were soft as a sheep’s back. “But the Tarly’s decade-long friendship with my family has allowed them leniency. Our allegiance has yielded many rewards. He is one of Westeros fiercest commanders and the greatest warrior the Reach have ever produced.” Willas lifted his newly filed glass. “Congratulations, Lord Tarly. You have made yourself indispensable to me.” A smile came to Willas’ face. “Until, of course, someone else comes along—someone with an eye for the evolving world and a keenness for strategy that surpasses your own. In that case, I hope you prepare yourself for the consequences. I may not be a Lannister but I am a Tyrell; we have more than enough to repay our debts.” He sipped his wine. Looking straight in his eyes, Willas told Lord Tarly that he looked forward to the future.

***

While the competitors readied themselves for the second part of the tourney, Willas requested Robb’s company over a pitcher of wine. They waited for the competition to start. Robb was on edge; his eyes were nomads searching for a home within Jon and he was left tragically wandering. Willas poured him a fuller glass.

“You were rather quiet, Lord Robb. I’m sorry if our discussion intimidated you.”

Robb scoffed. “Intimidate is not the word I would use.”

“How would you describe the event? And speak freely,” Willas encouraged. “I did not ask for your company to hear lies.” 

There was something he wanted to hear, Robb grumbled inwardly. “Notable,” he answered out loud. “You southerners like to mark your territory, even at the expense of your men’s pride. I can’t say I approve of those methods; all the fancy words and subtle threats.” Keeping his boast light, he told Willas that he was raised to rise above subtext. “Though I supposed for your family, the gesture is necessary. The Reach has a history of strife and to each his own how he handles his men.” 

Willas chuckled darkly. “Northerners are notorious for their allegiance to their liege lord.” 

“Notorious is not a kind word.”

Willas continued his pouring. He ignored Robb’s point. “Forgive my paranoia. I was taught to be mistrusting for the reasons you suggest. My grandmother regrets not instilling more discipline into my father’s upbringing—she says comforts made him soft. And by soft she means foolish.”

“You believe loyalty is a comfort?”

“I can assure you, an average man is more likely to die at the hands of his wife than his rival.”

“We are not average men.”

Willas nodded his head. “No, we are not.” 

“What do you see me as?”

Willas tipped his glass in approval. “Rest assured, I do not see a fool.”

“Thank you. Rest assured that the few people I seek the approval of all share my blood.”

Willas hummed in amusement. “I can’t say I don’t appreciate a Northerner’s sense of humor. There is not a lot of room for comforts in the North, is there?”

Robb made a motion of drinking from his wine but a drop did not hit his lips. “I would say our space for comfort is equivalent to your number of friends.”

“Your assumption is correct” Willas shook his head. “I find myself selective of company as of late. A ruler’s power is only as strong their weakest ally.” He set his goblet down and gave Robb a once over. “I will not waste your time any longer. We are born to be great men, Lord Robb—the best of our kingdom. We will have power neither of us can comprehend as we sit. For some, having power means an endless amount of omegas lifting up their skirts for a taste of their fertile cunts. For others, it means building a legacy for your children based on the backs of giants. I have an idea on how I plan to use my power and I am sure you are inclined to your own plans.” The bronze crown flashed through Robb’s mind for the first time in years. He remembered the image of a northern kingdom and his cavalry of direwolves. “So let me ask you, Lord Robb: do you believe we will be enemies or friends?”

***

Before the second half of the tourney began, Ser Loras asked Lord Renly if he would like to see his horse. After they were seen inspecting the mare, the two of them returned to Loras’ tent. As per tradition, Loras dropped a piece of silver in each of their guards’ hands and the men snuck out of the back of their tent unseen. They closed the entrance on their way out.

Once alone, Renly wasted no time stripping Loras of his armor. As an omega who preferred the frills of court, Renly would never be the warrior his brothers were. He displayed his strength through ripped shirts and scratch marks instead. When he was done stripping his lover, he used his free hands to grasp Loras’ face and pull him down for a sloppy, desperate kiss. He moaned as soon as he tasted Loras’ tongue.

So good, Renly thought, drunk on pleasure. His alpha tasted like honey and heaven and he could have spent hours sucking on his tongue and drinking in his saliva. Renly scolded himself on his lack of control. His pants were ruined—his own juices were seeping through the threads to make a puddle on the ground. Renly moaned into the kiss. His addiction was spiraling out of control. Every time Loras finished soiling his cunt, Renly craved another round immediately. He wondered if this was why omegas were supposed to be chaste until wedded. Renly felt sinful. He could not resist Loras for the life of him. As soon as Loras was near, he became this shameless harlot who opened his legs for the chance of a knot inside him.

Loras continued kissing him until they were on the bed. Renly was stripped of his ruined trousers and revealed his furnace of a cunt to his lover. Renly could not resist spreading his legs further apart, showing Loras exactly how much he was aching for him—his lips fluttering open and slick with pussy gloss.

Loras pressed the fat head of his cock against Renly’s cunt and let the older man thrust back, his dripping hole blindly seeking out the friction. When the head slipped inside, they moaned together. Renly rolled his hips, urging Loras to come closer and guide his cock into his welcoming warmth. Loras spread his hands over the omega’s hips and worked his cock in deeper.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Loras gasped as he watched his cock disappear inside Renly’s cunt. His omega wanted a long, proper fucking that they didn’t have time for. To distract his whimpering omega, Loras began to fuck him hard enough to shake the bed and pushed Renly’s body up and down like a rag doll. Loras rode him harder with each whimper. He especially enjoyed the sight of Renly’s pussy swelling up every single time he pulled out and thrusted back in. He relished in the way his pussy lips unwrapped whenever he pulled out, rubbing against the texture cunt. Loras what not a patient man; he thrust himself all the way in and released huge spurts of cum, filling him up. Renly screamed. Pulse after pulse, Loras gave him impossible pleasure and coated his insides with delicious white heat. Loras held off his knot.

“Please,” Renly whimpered. “Please, please, Loras, I just need you to knot me for a second. Just a second. I want you to stretch me out, ruin my cunt with your thick cock, please, I only want you, just fuck me open so that my pussy gapes all day long, I can’t wait for you fill me up again,” Renly babbled as more cum leaked out.

Loras groaned. He pulled the pliant body close and wrapped Renly’s legs around him. Once stabilized, the knight lifted him up. Renly let out a delightful shrill. The older man kissed him again, sucking on his tongue and nibbling on his lips. Loras was getting hard again. He idly fingered Renly’s asshole while he seated himself on his bed and let Renly rest on his cock. Renly tried to spur another fucking. He was grinding his hips until Loras gave him a warning smack on the ass.

“You can’t,” Loras rumbled. “I have to get ready soon.”

Renly licked his lips. As much as he loved watching Loras win, he wanted to get fucked even more. Loras was the victor of several tourneys this year. Surely, he could afford to miss one.

“Please,” Renly begged. He bent down to place a love bite on Loras’ collarbone. Loras closed his eyes and shivered. “Don’t you want me?” Renly asked as he clenched around Loras’ cock.

Loras groaned. He wondered where Renly learned these moves—probably from all those _books_ of his. When Loras squired for the man, the beautiful lord had the audacity to show him, then a boy of thirteen, those debauched pages that he secreted away under his bed.

“Omegas are not allowed to have desire,” Renly had whispered in the dark; the fire from the candles made his green eyes glow. Loras remembered getting hard. Renly teased him mercilessly for his blush and ruffled his brown locks with fondness. He was eighteen and already the prettiest omega Loras had ever met. “But I cannot help myself. This book was supposed to belong to my brother. His husband’s friend bought it for them as a joke for their wedding day. But Stannis never laughs. He threw it out the window and I found it. I had to keep it. I looked through the pages and there were these omegas—so many pretty omegas in all these horrible positions. I didn’t even know there were so many ways to _fuck_." Renly licked his lips. "Some climbed on top of their partners and rode on them like horses. Others let themselves get mated like dogs. Look,” Renly encouraged huskily. “This omega is licking his alpha’s cock while his hole is getting reamed.” 

Loras’ erection grew with each turn of the page. Renly was not unaffected. He slipped his hands inside his skirt, much to Loras’ shock. Renly caught his expression and let out shaky laugh. “You must never tell anyone about this, Loras,” Renly warned. "I would get into a lot of trouble." Before Loras could ask, Renly pushed in three of his fingers inside him. Each thrust made a squelching noise that echoed in the room.

When his orgasm came, Renly decided to take his seduction a step further—he laid down on his bed and spread his legs. The Tyrell was entranced; the hole was sucking in each finger like it was starving. Loras gripped his cock for the first time and rubbed himself. Renly moaned out loud, urging him to come closer. When Loras obeyed, the heat eradiating from Renly’s cunt made him lose control. He came all over Renly’s pussy. When the Lord of Storm’s End was finished chasing his own orgasm, Renly removed his slick, dripping fingers. He crawled over to Loras’ shaking form. With a tiny smile, he thrusted his fingers into Loras’ perfect lips and let him taste his salted honey.

Loras sucked on his fingers eagerly. When Renly took them away, Loras followed their direction and landed himself in front of Renly’s face. Loras was unable to resist the temptation of a beautiful, older omega yearning for him. He leaned in and kissed Renly until they were both breathless.

The tryst became an affair with each invitation to Renly’s bedroom. The following month, the affair turned into a courtship when his rut arrived and he deflowered Renly on the beach. Loras admitted that his youth made him reckless—choosing a mate at the age of thirteen was hardly reasonable, though there was no shame in being accepted by an older omega who ruled over his own lands. Loras became the hero of his bannermen’s sons. No one in his family protested, but his eldest brother encouraged him to hold off on a proposal until he made a name for himself.

Loras followed his suggestion—Garlan was a prime example of Willas’ expert decision making—and was rewarded by the confidence of a thousand men twice his age. Omegas of all standings flocked towards him for a smile and the alphas who once flirted with Renly in front of him, the ones who sneered at his high voice and short stature, shrunk in submission at his presence. He had knocked over hundreds of those alphas, stomped on their shields and their pride. Served them right for infringing on his territory.

The memory of those alphas reminded Loras of why he participated in these tourneys at all. He gently lifted Renly off his cock much to the irritation of his lord. “I have to go,” he informed reluctantly. The air touching his manhood was a far cry from the delicious heat of Renly’s quim.

Renly pouted. He continued to try Loras’ patience by licking his ear. “Are you saying that knocking other men off their horses is preferable to _this_?” Renly gave his hips a slow roll.

Loras groaned. In a maneuver of grace and finesse, he turned Renly over and landed him on his back. He informed Renly that “there was nothing he preferred to him.” Renly leaned down and kissed him. “But if I do not go now, I will be called a coward until the end of my days.” After the explanation, Loras got dressed for the tourney. He grabbed an intact shirt from his trunk and whatever spare jerkin he could get his hands on.

Renly laughed. “I bet you enjoy being fawn over by those desperate omegas.”

The suggestion, though spoken in mirth, made Loras tense. The beast from the North’s commentary came to mind. Knowing that such a distraction would ruin his streak, he turned to Renly to settle the matter.

“Does it upset you when I smile at other omegas?”

“You do more than smile, don’t you?” Renly teased, running a finger down his chest. “You run your hands through your long hair and they swoon. They touch your arms and you tell them to squeeze. You like the attention. You make them think they’re special and get them wet before fucking me.”

“I’ve never done anything with them. They’re nothing,” Loras defended. He faced Renly who was beginning to clean himself up. “You mean everything to me.”

Renly was not the least bit jealous. “I know there’s no danger in making amusing those twats.” He smiled at him. “Loras, jealousy and possession…that’s when you start to consider your beloved as property. I trust you.”

Loras leaned in to give Renly a kiss. “I cannot wait to crown you as my queen.” While Loras shared a similar sentiment, he was aware that if another alpha decided to challenge his claim on Renly, he would slaughter the man where he stood.

Renly began to get dressed when Loras made his promise. “You better keep that vow. Stannis finds me frivolous for avoiding marriage this long. He believes our relationship to be doomed.”

“Stannis has the personality of a lobster and the attractiveness of one as well,” Loras pointed out. “He could not afford to wait for a marriage offer. Hence his pathetic union to that criminal.”

“I shiver thinking about them,” Renly told him. “Stannis pretends to be this upstanding omega when every night he gets plowed like a field, popping out children like some brood mare. I’m not even sure their marriage is legal.”

Loras paused; he remembered the scandal in small details. “The man's wife is still alive, isn’t she?”

Renly nodded. “Because he is the king’s brother, the High Septon promised to grant an annulment if both spouses agreed. Robert must have thought it was impossible; he believed that no self-respecting omega would go through such humiliation.” Renly scoffed. “The Citadel processed the divorce and their marriage within the same week. She was in attendance. I remember her kissing Stannis’ cheek and thanking him for her sons’ advancement.”

“Are you sure Stannis’ goal was not to rile up the king into a fit? They sure enjoy a good fight.”

“Funny you should say that,” Renly noted. “They were at odds when I left. One of Stannis’ good sons—he has so many of them,” Renly said in distaste. “—was brought to the Small Council to learn what being the Master of Ships entailed. Robert was livid when he found out. He stormed into the next meeting and him and Stannis got into a row. ‘A commoner? On my council? Your whore’s son?’ You could hear him yelling from outside the castle. For a man who loves to lecture me on the ‘importance of upholding omegan values,’ Stannis tends to ignore the lesson on submission.” Renly shook his head. “My brothers were so immersed with their argument that they missed the opportunity to come. Robert is probably prolonging the matter out of desperation. Once the fight is settled, he’ll have to deal with the queen and the shrew will never let him live it down.”

That explained why the Lannisters were not in attendance. Loras made a note to inform his sister.

Renly helped dress Loras in his armor. “Promise me when we marry, you will never drink yourself into a stupor to avoid hearing my voice.”

“As long as you promise not to use those hunting trips to seek out other alphas because my touch sickens you.”

They agreed to each other’s conditions. When Loras was fully dressed, he asked Renly if he was satisfied waiting.

“Of course,” Renly answered. “Marriage is for omegas who wish to use childbirth to excused their aging bodies. I have not given up on living.”

The notion appeased him and he captured Renly’s lips in a kiss. “You are my soulmate,” he swore. Marriages of youth were reserved for wartime negotiations and desperate political matches. Becoming a husband made him feel decrepit and old; at his age, the thrill of a lover surpassed the comforts of a wife.

***

While original predictions led the organizers to believe that the tourney would last an upward of three days, the number of drop-outs and “unexplainable injuries” proved them otherwise. At the latest, the tourney would last two and a half days, with the final round taking the whole morning and leave a free afternoon. By the second day, less than half the alphas remained. The predicted finalists behaved more brutally as the numbers dropped. Domeric was not even pretending to aim at their shields anymore—he was out for blood.

On the final day, a fog of seething spread throughout the Reach. Gone was the careful precision and the excessive caution of the first day. Everyone in the final round was riding on blind rage. People cheered for broken bones and speared chests.

“There are not such frail flowers anymore, are they?” Jon mocked. Robb requested they sit together with the northerners on their final day at the tourney. Willas promised to explain the situation to his father in a way that would garner his respect. He wrapped his arm around his half-brother’s waist and held him close.

While Loras rode to his end, he passed by Robb with a devious smirk. The hairs on Robb’s back rose as Loras drew closer to his seat. A rose in hand, he carefully dropped the flower onto Jon’s lap. Jon was taken back by the gesture.

“What the fuck…?” Robb growled as Loras dashed away. He stood up to deliver his own message when Jon pulled him down.

“Do not make a scene,” Jon pleaded. “It is only a rose.”

“He is insulting me!”

“He wants to rile you up. Do not grant him the honor.”

Robb snatched the rose from his hand and threw it onto the field. “I’ll kill him.”

Robb was serious about his declaration. The tourney was chiseling away at their endurance and riding their sanity to the edge of a cliff. Neither of them were prepared for the toll abstinence placed on them. After he lost his maidenhood, he spent a good portion of his days being fucked by Robb. He never admitted how eager he was for it, painting Robb as the aggressor in their trysts. Never before was he more aware of his crannogman nature and how predisposed he was to seek out pleasure.

Grasping onto Robb’s hand, he urged Robb to walk away—preferably during the round.

“If you cannot control your temper, I ask that you leave the premises. Let us leave together.”

“I don’t want that flower boy to think he got to me.”

Jon cursed his brother’s obliviousness. “Robb, I insist. Let us have a moment of privacy to discuss the root of your anger.” Jon tightened his thighs to keep himself from spilling over.

“I know the cause.”

“Robb,” Jon hissed. He tightened his grip and stood up. The force drew Robb’s attention away from the offending alpha. Once he caught sight of Jon’s flushed face and aroused form, his eyes widened. “We must go— _now_.”

Robb needed no other explanation. He was dragged away to closest empty tent he could find. The audience was too absorbed with Loras’ performance to give a damn about the fleeing heir. If he were in the right mind, Jon would have laughed at the devotion the South had towards their sports. All Jon could think about was having a fat cock stirring inside him.

Robb did not bother to undress either of them. He opened up his pants and lifted Jon’s skirt to reveal the sight of cunt framed by crotchless panties. “Fuck, that looks good.” he growled. He bent Jon over the bed to get a better view of his backside. Jon’s ass was fat and round; while his tits were of an average swell for a male omega, his ass was the stuff of dreams. He drew an army’s worth of stares whenever he bent down to pick up a pen.

Jon’s pussy lips peeked out below his ass and Robb’s dick was the hardest it has even been. He sunk into Jon’s cunt without warning—not that the younger boy would have preferred the time to be spent talking. He was just as desperate as Robb for a breeding.

Robb moaned from the spongy feeling of his cunt, all wrapped around Robb’s cock and clenched to keep him lodged in. Jon was slicked up with honey and the wetness made it easy to move. Robb grounded himself to the hilt. He lost himself as he fucked his half-brother without mercy; each thrust was followed by one harder, faster, or deeper and Jon begged for more each time. The room was filled with breathless moans and the squelch of cum being sloshed around in Jon’s cunt. The potent smell of sex brought them into a drug-induced haze. Robb’s cock was pulsing red and looked better covered in the slick produced by Jon’s pink pussy.

The intensity of their lovemaking made the bed shake. Jon began to wail. While most people were occupied with the tourney, there might have been a few wanderers lurking about. To silence his brother, Robb grabbed onto Jon’s curls and twisted his head in order to capture his lips in a rough kiss that was nothing but tongue and teeth.

Jon surrendered to his dominance. His omega instincts riled up and demanded he bring Robb to completion. He rocked his hip backwards to encourage a rougher pounding and clenched right before Robb thrusted back in to provide more friction. Robb howled and worked to return the favor. He angled Jon’s body for better access to his clit. Once he asserted his aim, Robb fucked into Jon as hard he could

Jon wailed as he came. His body was riddled in shockwaves and Robb thrusts against them. He was seconds away from unloading himself into Jon’s perfect body when Jon, overwhelmed by the orgasm, pulls forward until the tip was touching his lips. In one swift, sudden movement, he bounced right back onto the cock. Robb’s manhood directly hits Jon’s clit a second time, unleashing his second orgasm of the hour. Jon lost his mind from pleasure; his body fell limp onto the bed.

There was no question on what would happen next. Robb’s continued to thrust until the familiar swell of a knot lodges its way into Jon’s body. Jon was wet enough for a year’s worth of pounding and made the extra knot-thrusts feel like heaven.

Before long, Robb was bursting inside Jon’s pussy and filling the little omega up with enough batter to fill a pot. Knots released a copious amount of cum and the amount he’s been storing up for the tourney made it clear to both of Ned’s children that the stream was not going to stop for a while. Both of them relaxed into their positions.

Despite the risky circumstance, neither complained.

***

The final round was between Loras Tyrell and Domeric Bolton—a clash of territories that would be the talk of the year. The noblewomen prepared their mouths for gossip and court-intended posturing, especially the women of the crownlands. They were eager for their return home and the chance to give their sympathies to Queen Cersei. “Such a shame you could not make it,” they would jeer with a kind smile, “The tourney was the greatest in decades.” King Robert would become red-faced with embarrassment and present his own tourney—one more grand to satisfy his people’s lust for a show. Another event to show off their pretty dresses.

No one in the audience understood the irony of the final round. Both men were a prime examples of the importance of spinning a story; they were devious in their own right and yet society remained blind to their true personas. Early in his career, Loras’ desperation to claim victory led to some underhanded tricks to guarantee a win. He was young then—desperate to earn the right to court the man he loved. Domeric fared no better; while displaying the guise of a stern but honest man, he developed a habit of mutilating his competition’s bodies and minds.

Confident of their victory, neither men resorted to deceit for this round. They trotted to their end and waited for the hawk to cry.

Away from the tourney, Robb and Jon remained curled up in each other’s arms. Robb’s knot deflated but the two decided to take advantage of the distraction to lounge. All at once, the world turned to silence. They risked falling asleep when the earth trembled with applause and alerted them to the end of the tourney.

The boys quickly dressed. They managed to return before the crowning but as soon as they saw the winner, they both knew who would be selected.

Following the end of the tourney of Highgarden, a wreath of golden roses crowned the Lord Renly Baratheon was named the queen of love and beauty.

***

The tourney’s final feast was grand, even by the Reach’s standards. The food consisted of numerous types of fish, smoked and grilled to perfection, boars braised for a half a day, venison cured with spices from the east, fresh quail whose pink meat glistened with juices, fruits arranged to depict artwork and tapestries, and each dish was accompanied by lavish entertainment: from foreign dancers to three dozen musicians seated on the balconies. Jon wondered what their expressions would be if their extravagance was wasted on Domeric Bolton. Judging by Theon’s relieved expression at the tourney, Jon was grateful to never know.

Speaking of the Greyjoy, Jon watched with some disappointment at how Theon was catering to Domeric’s mood. The man kept a cool head in his defeat—but his fist remained clenched and there was a downward weight of his lips. Jon doubted Theon would leave the night unscathed. Domeric intended to released his rage and Theon’s newfound obedience would not be enough to mollify the pressure.

“Perhaps that is his intention,” Robb suggested when Jon voiced his concerns. “A wife who enjoys the harvest is a wife, a wife who survives the storm is a queen.”

“And what will you do if Theon visits tomorrow morning? Sporting a black eye or a bruised rib?”

Robb paused as Domeric grabbed Theon’s wrist and pulled him close. There was no play in his movements. Domeric trailed his hands underneath the table and Theon did his best to control his voice. The men at the other table chuckled and cheered at the rough treatment. Robb listened to them praise Domeric “putting his bitch in his place.” Robb frowned. “Domeric may be my bannerman one day. The North remembers.”

The answer was not pleasing but it was adequate. Jon avoided the scene to read the room. He observed his Aunt Jyana fluttering about and acknowledged the absence of his cousin once more. Lyanna was making a habit of ghosting her relatives, appearing and reappearing in a span of hours to seconds. She was a crannogman without a doubt. Jon wondered if he should offer his services again or if he should allow the matter to settle on his own. Lyanna was found when she wanted to be.

Jon’s decision was made for him when a musician from above glanced over at the entrance and stopped playing midway. His neighbor was about to scold him when he followed his gaze to the door. One by one, all the musicians were silenced in shock. One noble lady turned to the door and gasped louder than any song.

When Arya Stark caught sight of the entrance, she swore with the language of a sailor and her mother was too stunned to reprimand her.

Lyanna Mormont arrived to the banquet hall wearing a wreath of golden roses on top of her head—the prize that honored her as the princess of love and beauty and reminded the guests of the Tyrell’s sigil. She did not come alone; her companion sparked the fear and interest of every man and woman in the room. On her right side was a black bear cub walking in leisure, admiring the shining lights and drawn to the smell of good food. The closer she came, the tighter the guards gripped their weapons. She walked further and further towards the Tyrell’s grand table. No one dared make a sudden movement and whispers of witchcraft filled with room with each step she made.

Lyanna stopped in front of Willas but remained several feet away. She said nothing but pride was evident on her face. Willas raised an eyebrow. He caught sight of the book she carried in her left hand.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Tyrell shrieked. The high pitch startled the predator and the beast rose on two feet. The guards branded their swords and marched forward. Lyanna turned to ursidae and offered her hand to pacify him. The beast roared and though ferocious, Willas knew a babe when he saw one. The frightened creature was soothed by the intensity of Lyanna’s calm. She did not falter once, not even when the bears paws were outstretched and the claws were an inch from her face. After a few seconds of soft-spoken suggestions, the beast settled down.

Willas stood up. “Lady Lyanna,” Willas spoke up before the matter got out of hand. “I assume you are attempting to solve the riddle?”

The prompting was met with some surprised as the viewers watched with wonder. Was this some sort of game, they wondered? What was the crippled son mad, they thought? Lyanna did not answer any of them with words. She walked forward with the bear following. The guards were about to stop her when Willas commanded otherwise. “Let her come,” Willas ordered. “She is here for me.”

Lyanna placed her book on the table. _A History of Aegon the Conqueror_ , Willas noted with amusement. Free of the book, Lyanna took out something from her mouth and addressed Willas for the first time tonight.

“Lord Willas, I _have_ solved your riddle,” she announced, adding more fodder for the rumors sure to come. To her credit, Lyanna did not smile like little girls did when they believed themselves to be clever.

“I see you’ve tried,” Willas offered, not yet proclaiming her victory. “Forgive my caution, but I am not sure I understand the answers.”

The bait did not earn Lyanna’s smile. She turned to bear and sung chimes from her mouth. The bear stood on its hind legs and outmatched her by at least twice her height. Lyanna feared nothing of nature—she held out her hand and waited for the bear to act. Like a dog, the creature rested his palm on hers.

“You have asked me to come to you, holding the hand of a loved one but never touching their skin. My house’s sigil is a black bear. This bear represents my beloved family and I bring him here holding his hand without touching his skin.” Lyanna stroked his fur and the bear settled down. “He wears nothing while I am dressed in your sigil.”

Willas fought the urge to smile. He waited for her to address the second part of the riddle. She pointed to the book. “When I first presented myself to you, I carried this book to represent what will never die while my mouth was filled with the poison you seek.”

“A book can burn,” he pointed out. “Is that not death?”

“The book can burn but the legend will never die,” Lyanna retorted, a hint of taunt in her tone.

Intrigued, Willas asked the final question. “And what was the poison in your mouth?”

Lyanna stepped forward and handed him a gold coin. “I can think of nothing stronger than the bane of money.”

Willas hesitated. He reached out and took the coin from her hands. With a satisfied sigh, he spoke. “I have been beaten,” he announced. Laughter bubbled in his throat. He placed the coin on the table and requested Lyanna sit by his side.

Lyanna opened her mouth to refuse but he insisted, claiming that they could discuss her reward. The reminder of the incentive brought a smile to her lips. When she sat beside him, the people gasped. She wondered about their shocked expressions when Willas distracted her. “Have you decided what you wanted?”

Lyanna nodded. She reached for the goblet and almost spat out the contents. Wine; Lyanna smacked her lips to rid herself of the bitter taste. Willas chuckled and ordered her water and juice. The serving girls were quick to both requests. Lyanna sipped the citrus mixed with much preference. “I want hawks,” she announced. “One for me and each of my sisters.”

“How could you be satisfied by my beasts when you have tamed a bear?”

Lyanna stared at the creature that wandered around the room. She saw her mother, an ever disapproving frown on her face, walk up to the cub and call it towards her. The beast obeyed. She sent her daughter a warning look and the severity made her wince. Willas recognized a scolding when he saw one and chuckled. “Your mother would not approve?”

Lyanna refused to answer. “You promised me whatever I desired. I want a hawk—like yours. And four more for my sisters," Lyanna repeated. Her tone made it clear she thought she was speaking to an invalid.

Willas agreed with a few questions attached. “Have you ever worked with hawks? If not, I will have to send someone to train you, or—”

“Or what?”

“You could stay here and I could teach you.”

Lyanna scoffed. “You want to foster me?”

“Why not?” Willas asked. From afar, his eavesdropping sister choked on her wine. “You told me you were going to be fostered in the Neck. What’s wrong with spending another year at Highgarden? It would not be for long.”

Lyanna did not have an immediate retort to his question. She turned away to gaze over at her family. For a second, he would have accused her of sentimentality. Her answer rid him of the accusation.

“My mother has an unusual gift.”

“I do not doubt that.”

Lyanna offered a rare, amused smile. “She could always tell when someone was lying. I used to think it was remarkable until I realized I had the same gift.” She turned to Willas. “You’re lying to me, Lord Willas. Or you are not telling me something. Either way.” Lyanna shrugged. “I do not want to spend my life, short or long, in your company.”

Willas lifted his goblet before returning it to the table. He would keep his wits sharp around this bear cub. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t like me?”

“I do like you,” Lyanna disagreed. “But if we are to be enemies one day, I do not wish to like you enough to come to your gates, place a sword against your throat, and hesitate from doing what needs to be done.”

Willas could not answer her concerns for her reasoning was the exact purpose of his suggestion. She was a fearsome thing, wasn’t she? If her foresight continued to grow, he would have to make her his wife.

Lyanna was startled by the sudden laugh coming from her right. She saw Willas chuckling to himself. She scolded him for the eccentricity. “You southerners are strange. Laughing without cause is a sign of madness in the North.”

Willas apologized. “I thought of something funny and could not help myself.”

“What?”

Willas directed his gaze towards the northern party and landed on the heir of Winterfell. The younger man was enraptured with his brother and did not notice Willas intent. The future lord of Highgarden recalled Robb’s response from the earlier day. He decided to indulge in a bit of wine. "If we do become enemies, I'd hate to kill a little girl."

Lyanna pursed her lips. "At least I can outrun you, it's not hard to kill a cripple." 

Willas laughed again. War was coming and the Tyrells would see that it predates winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-read the books. Stannis married his wife after the Rebellion, not before as the TV show declares. I am a huge Stannis/Davos shipper. I do not know how relevant they are going to be the series or if they will appear at all. It’s up in the air. 
> 
> The description of Highgarden is a genuine, canon description of the castle. I didn’t make that up like I did the Neck. I was actually disappointed by my last minute research because I found out that for each harvest moon, Highgarden has a big masquerade to celebrate and I would love to write that one day—HOLY SHIT, I FIGURED OUT MY WILLAS/JON ONESHOT. Okay, I am done. 
> 
> I have no clue when this story is going to end but it’s not going to end in 15 or 18 chapters like I originally planned. Also, I’m sorry for the chapter being late. Sam was actually supposed to appear in this chapter (hence Lord Tarly’s presence) but I did not have time to write him in. Hopefully, I’ll write the scene one day. I intended this to be a 3-part series so hopefully (fingers crossed) we get to see an older Lyanna soon.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortest chapter I've ever written for this story. Marathon sex. Edmure appears.  
> I literally spent thirty minutes trying to think of innovated ways for Jon and Robb to have sex in this chapter. My future lover is going to be one lucky son of a bitch if I have half the creativity in our relationship as I do my stories.

Robb spent his allowance on a silver cuff that resembled a collar on Jon’s wrist. As the heir of Winterfell, his duties outnumbered those of the other Stark children. Robb's father rewarded his labor with more coin to spend. To guarantee a good deal, he enlisted the help of Willas Tyrell. The heir recommended Robb a local merchant but reminded  Robb to warn the man that the Tyrells would like to see his selection afterward. The bracelet had a sapphire and enamel centerpiece. Nothing extravagant, but enough to give the illusion that Jon was spoken for. Jon thought it was a lovely choice and rewarded his good taste by allowing Robb to plow him in one of Highgarden's hallways. The thrill gave Robb more pleasure than any tourney. 

Jon hid the bracelet underneath his sleeves, but there were moments in the light where the silver glistened. They should have known the gift would not remain a secret forever. While Jon applauded Robb's self-control, Lady Stark was quick with an objection.

The brothers were walking up the steps to Riverrun when Catelyn caught a glimpse of the jewelry. She demanded Jon show his gift to her. Though reluctant, Jon complied. Catelyn grasped onto his wrist. She examined the quality of the product and accessed its value. She glared at Robb. “Did you buy this for him?”

Robb sighed. “Mother…”

“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped. “Either you bought this for him, or he stole it.”

Jon gaped at the accusation. Before Jon could defend himself, Robb answered without remorse. “I was not going to lie to you. I am not ashamed to admit I bought Jon a gift. He is my brother.”

“Yet your sisters remain unadorned.”

“They have their souvenirs from their journey, and I bought Bran and Rickon a present.”

“Using funds from your father’s request. This gift was your money, and you spent it on Jon, who wasted his coin on something he cannot share.” Lady Stark was referring to their little revelation party at dinner. Sansa waved her newest doll around and revealed the engraved comb she received from Margaery; Arya purchased a bottle from an apothecary and refused to divulge in its peculiar substances. Both Jon and Robb remained silent about their choices.

“Trust me, he spent his coin on an item we could both enjoy,” Robb retorted. "And I especially took pleasure in his purchase."  

Jon turned red. Lady Stark caught his embarrassment. “We are visiting my father,” Lady Stark hissed. “And you decide to showcase your preference to the child _I did not bare_.” While she reprimanded her son, her grip on Jon’s wrist tightened. Jon bit his lips to avoid drawing attention to his discomfort. He did not want to cause a scene here. “We are not in Winterfell, Robb. Jon will not receive favor for being Lord Stark’s bastard.”

“I know!” Robb growled back to everyone’s surprise. “That’s why we’re sending him away like a man doomed for the Night’s Watch! Even though you know Jon is more mine than anyone else!”

Silence filled the area. More of Winterfell’s men walked passed them. One stopped to ask if there was anything wrong but Lady Stark ordered them to march ahead of them. She needed to have a long conversation with her son.

“If anything,” Lady Stark began, her voice more solemn than the grave of a child. “His fair treatment will be a reminder of my disgrace. You are putting a target on his back and a knife in mine. Have you no shame than to bring forth the child of the man your father wronged me with? In front of my father?” Lady Stark pulled down Jon’s sleeve to cover the bracelet. “Keep hidden. Keep silent. When it is time to leave, one of the men will escort you to the traveling camp.” Catelyn let go and turned to Robb. “I am allowing him to enter my childhood home. If you were not my son, I would not be able to spare the love or humility needed to withstand this treatment.” Having said her peace, she walked away.

Robb’s hand returned to Jon’s back, but the touch was soft. Robb was a man of conviction, but his mother’s speech shook his belief. He was quiet and tense. His shoulders dropped. His head pointed down. Like a dog beaten and sweetened when the threat of death passed. Jon trembled. For the first time, Jon was reminded of the sway Lady Stark had over her children. He heard that a wife’s war with their husband’s mother ended only in the death of one or the other. He was foolish to disregard such wisdom. Jon clenched his fist. He dragged Robb off the road and secreted them behind a tree. Alone, he kissed Robb so deeply; it was as if they were seconds away from making love.

From the taste of Jon’s tongue and the thickness of his saliva, Robb regained his resolve. Robb grasped onto Jon’s butt and massaged his cheeks. Jon whimpered but made no protest, not even when more people walked on the road. They were out in the open. Anybody could turn their head and see the movements behind the trees. Someone might investigate and that turned Jon on as much as it made him tremble in fear.  The bastard boy rubbed his nipples against Robb’s chest. He ground his hips against Robb's cock. He reached out and pulled Robb’s face down so that his tongue was fucking Jon’s mouth. He wanted his touch to consume Robb. 

The desire for devastation was unlike anything Jon had ever felt. Years ago, maybe even days ago, Jon would have spoken for Catelyn Stark. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he rehearsed in his head. ‘You should show your grandfather more respect than to bring the bastard of his good son to his door.’ The words never left Jon’s mouth. Panic made sanity its prey and control was slipping from his fingers.

Fuck me here, Jon thought desperately. Push your cock into my creamy cunt until I am dripping on the floors of your grandfather’s castle. 

Robb wouldn’t be thinking of his mother then.

The horror that he was no better than Catelyn Stark was not powerful enough to defeat his wicked thoughts. He could no longer claim greater care for Robb’s wellbeing—not when he silently wished to spite Lord Tully with his presence and curse Lady Stark to the grave. The tourney changed him. The day Robb mounted that horse, he declared his eligibility as a bachelor. He was an alpha prime for marriage and a cock for omegas to sink their cunts onto.

Jon grabbed Robb’s prick and wrapped his hand around him. Robb caught his breath. “Jon,” He moaned. Jon bit his lips as he slowly stroked him. The image of those horrid omegas made him sick. All their eyes were on Robb. _On them._ People were watching, waiting for their love to fall apart. They were waiting for the great and precious heir to Winterfell to figure out that his wayward brother was a bastard. 

Jon refused to let another hateful word pierce Robb’s skull. That woman should never be allowed to practice her influence over the Starks again. If there were a chance his siblings would ever doubt him, it would be through her doing. More than ever, Jon was prepared to fulfill his mother’s prophecy. He was Howland Reed’s child, and Catelyn Stark was the woman who tore his family apart. Jon could no longer deny his feelings. He hated her. She was the reason his mother cried, clutching onto the sheets his father laid on because the smell still lingered. She was the reason why, for eleven years, he could only see his father for one a week, only to watch him ride away on his horse, _back to her_. She was the _duty_ his father abandoned him for, and if the honorable Lord Stark could not bring himself to leave her behind, then Jon shall act in his place.

After jerking Robb off with a few urgent strokes, Jon’s hands were coated with cum. Robb was heaving; his mind was clouded with a pleasant haze while Jon settled on vengeance. For being Robb’s mother, Catelyn's end would be swift. His gratitude would grant her that mercy.

***

 When they are inside the castle, Jon made his expected complaints. “Perhaps, I should not be here,” Jon spoke softly but loud enough for their party to hear. “It seems disrespectful,” he said with no resolve.

If the people think I am a doll, delicate and obedient, they will make no attempts to break me, he thought. A toy sword threatens no one.

“You will leave in a few hours,” Robb surmised. His grip on Jon’s back returned in full force. He pushed his fingers into Jon and left fingertip-shaped bruises on his hips. Marking his territory when he was gone; Jon hissed in pleasure.  When they got closer to the hall, Robb leaned in and whispered, “I cannot wait to have you in my room. I plan to be the first lord to have fucked his lover in all the strongholds of Westeros.”

Jon moaned. He checked to see if their companions were watching but they were far ahead. With a small gasp, Jon told Robb that he might be late to the title. “I heard the king had beaten you to that privilege.”

“Rumors, I assure you.” Robb licked the shell of his ear. “Father refused to let him disgrace his sister in their ancestral home and Dorne will never welcome him on their sands. I have mastered Winterfell, Highgarden, and soon, Riverrun.” 

"And all at the age of fifteen," Jon jested. "The bards will sing about you." 

Robb grabbed a handful of Jon’s bottom, relishing in its thickness. He swore. “And you. This deserves a pounding that is legendary.” 

Robb continued to fondle Jon as they entered the great hall and waited for the Lord of the Trident to arrive. Jon could not help his giggles, not even when Lady Stark glared at them to remain silent. To their audience, they were children, amused in each other’s company. When they spoke, Robb mouthed his words against Jon’s neck while Jon replied with whispers against Robb’s lips.

Using a cane and a servant’s shoulder, Lord Holster Tully arrived with his son on his right and a maester on the left. When he saw Catelyn, he regained his strength and walked up to her with little to no aid. As soon as he was close enough, the kissed his eldest child—the most beloved of his three children. “For the past month, I have laid awake at night, waiting for the chance to hold you again.” Catelyn’s eyes filled with tears as she embraced her father.

“I’ve missed you as well.” Catelyn never felt safer than when she was with her father. She held onto him a little longer to memorize his form. Though once a proud leader and warrior, the illness shrunk him. He was almost as big as her, now. When they parted, she introduced him to her children.

Lord Tully greeted his granddaughters with more affection than he could afford to give. His excitement was a sight to behold on so sick a man, but Catelyn could not help but fear for his heart. The maester sent her a knowing smile and mouthed that the circumstances were excellent for his health. She relaxed from the knowledge and watched her father interact with his grandchildren. He was especially fond of Sansa, who resembled his Catelyn so truly, he’d thought he’d traveled back in time. “She reminds me of you, staring at me while I was in my prime. Lovely girl.” Catelyn and the maester smiled in amusement. In contrast to his doting, Lord Tully’s reaction to Arya was more playful; he called her a tough creature and cooed at her when she spoke. “Smart as a whip, this one. I can tell. I can always tell.” Arya grinned. When it was Robb’s turn, the heir kissed Jon on the cheek before leaving to introduce himself. Lord Tully reached upwards to touch his face. He marveled at Robb's appearance and patted his shoulders in pride. He proclaimed that Robb was a strapping young man with much potential. “You’ve grown so much—towering over me like a weed. I heard you placed in the tourney at Highgarden, against all those flower boys. Sent a few of ours to the maester, as well.”

“I tried my best,” Robb answered smoothly. “I heard you were quite the jouster as well. Perhaps you would have given me more competition."

Lord Tully roared with laughter before a cough infiltrated his ranks. Maester Vyman ran to his side, prepared to put back a lung if need be. Fright overwhelmed Catelyn but quick as it came, Lord Tully recovered. “Good humor on this one. Given who his father is, I figured we’d have to slaughter a cow to get him to smile.”

Catelyn’s smile grew tense. “Father…”

“Oh, I jest. He knows that! Don’t you, my boy?”

Robb’s smile was tight. “Of course, grandfather." 

Lord Tully offered rooms for all of the Stark men guarding his daughter and grandchildren. He made no mention of Jon, and when his gaze fell on the bastard boy, his fist trembled but he said nothing. Whether his behavior was a result of the maester’s warning or a lecture on civility, Catelyn dared not bring attention to her husband’s bastard. She caught her brother’s bored expression and with a nod of the head, directed his attention to Jon and Robb, who were quickly reuniting.

The sharp instruction made Edmure stumbled forward. He offered to show his nephew to his room.

“I’ve got a lot to teach you, Robb. We’re going to have a real adventure while you’re here! Just don’t tell your mother,” he warned; Catelyn would kill him for what he had planned for her son. Jon followed with a hurried step. “Wenches and wine until you’re passed out on the street with your dick being sucked by an eighty-year-old whore. You are finally at the right age for that. Back then, you were no bigger than a tadpole. Couldn’t do anything fun.”

“Sounds fantastic, Uncle Edmure.” Robb was only half-listening. Jon was trailing behind them. “Jon,” Robb called out, slowing his steps so that his brother’s legs could catch up. The bastard hastily retreated under Robb’s arm.

Up close, Edmure was taken back by the beauty of the bastard. The young boy exhibited all the finer attributes of an omega, starting with his lush, pink mouth that parted slightly at all time. He heard from one of his men that the action was common for wanton omegas. It was a signal that their mouths were available for cocksucking without looking like whores. Edmure’s pants tightened; he wondered if the rumors were true. Though drowned in a dress that was too big for him, Edmure could see the soft, svelte form hiding underneath his too thin dress. The bastard was northern;  thank gods for that. The heat required him to wear things that made his nipples peek through, and the outline of his panties could seen.

Fuck, the boy was wearing lace. Edmure licked his lips. Lace was his favorite.

Jon’s eyes were wider than a standard omega, though; big orbs of gray, the type of eyes that filled with hearts after a thorough fucking. He looked small and innocent. It could be a farce. Edmure remembered the boy’s mother. The slut was always on his knees for his sister’s husband, sucking dick down that golden throat and taking a cock twice his size into his childlike hole. He heard tales that the crannogmen were all whores.

“So you’ll be leaving today? To visit your other family?” Edmure failed to sound casual.

Jon did not mind. He smiled with those pretty, plush lips, and said he was. “It has been a long time since I had an extended stay in the Neck. I miss my birth home and my people.”

“Thought you Northerners were all the same.”

“The same honorable man rules us, but we are not the same—at least, not unless the Southron are open to comparisons between yourself and the Freys.”

Edmure coughed, unable to respond. He loathed having any comparison to those ingrates. He switched the topic to something more pleasant, like the amount of ease in having Jon’s thighs parted. “If you have a few hours here, you might as well enjoy them. I could show you the wonders of Riverrun. Far preferable to staying in this grim castle. Why there’s an incredible lake, you might enjoy.”

“I have no suit for swimming.”

“You won’t need one,” Edmure said slyly. “Water is at the perfect temperature. You could go swim bare-titted without a problem.”

Jon laughed, and Robb answered for him. “Perhaps we’ll consider the offer,” Robb replied. “If we recover from our rest in time, we’ll join you for a dip. But for now, Jon and I need to retreat to my room.” He pressed his finger against Jon’s lips. Jon flicked his tongue against the tips. “I trust Jon’s taste before anyone else.”

With his offer shut down, Edmure became oddly professional. He took Robb to his quarters and noticed that Robb never took his hands off Jon. He was protective, as alphas tend to be of their omega siblings. Edmure thought nothing of it except for the fact that Jon was a bastard.

“I must say, I never thought it possible for siblings to be so close. Especially not those under your circumstances.” Edmure meant it as a compliment. He bedded many noble whores that were cast away by their siblings despite their fathers’ recognition.

Jon frowned, thinking the commentary had more malice. “Well, our father raised us as brothers, and we are close in age. I suppose that helped.”

“Ah, that must be it.” He offered Jon a smile which was shyly returned. The action incensed Robb.

“There’s a bit more to the story than that, Jon,” Robb pointed out. Jon yelped when his older brother grabbed him by the arm and bent him over the bed. He lifted up a side of Jon’s dress, just below his twitching hole, and revealed the two perfect bubbles of fat. Robb squeezed one cheek and let it go. The mound bounced, catching Edmure’s breath.

“Truth be told, there’s no way I can leave Jon alone when he has an ass like this.”

Edmure jumped when Robb gave it a harsh slap.

“Ah!” Jon cried out. His moan made Edmure’s cock twitch.

Robb repeated the motion again, turning the other cheek red. His bruised bottom was more alluring than a bathing omega. Edmure drooled over the sight. “Do you understand how hard it is? Keeping cocks away from my brother’s cunt? I might as well join the Night’s Watch; my duties would shrink by the hundreds.” Robb slapped him again. Jon sobbed against the sheets.

Edmure was speechless. He gulped and like all fools, he spoke when it was time to stay silent. “I bet half the men in Winterfell want to fuck him,” Edmure muttered, entrance by Jon’s submission. He never fought back; like the perfect omega whore. He whimpered and cried and waited for another blow. Robb grinned and walked up to his uncle.  
“I'm not surprised you understand. We’re alphas,” Robb reminded, playing up to Edmure’s idealism and old traditions. “You’re lucky, Uncle Edmure. My mother and aunt were older than you; they married young, so you did not have to dirty your hands. That is what an alpha does for his family—we keep our omegas pure and pliant, and we protect them.” Robb led Edmure to the doorway. “Thank you for showing me my room. But I have to discipline Jon before he leaves.”

“Discipline?” Edmure gulped. The image of Jon’s raw bottom was fresh in his mind. The boy was crying; he wondered if he could take any more damaged. “F-for what?”

Robb tilted his head to mimic confusion. “Oh, just maintenance spankings—the usual for omegas like Jon. Though archaic, the tradition has worked wonders on Jon’s behavior.” Robb raised an eyebrow. “It’s a common practice amongst noble families. Encourages the natural born children to keep their legs closed. Have you never heard of it?”

Edmure denied the accusation. “Of course I have!” He had not, but refused to be seen as less knowledgeable than his teenage nephew. He nodded with more confidence than he had. “Continue with your punishment. I shall see you at dinner. And…” He licked his lips, straining to get a view of Jon before he left. His cock was straining for the chance to watch them. “If you need help, you are welcomed to ask for my assistance.”

To his credit, Robb requested a favor instead of grabbing that sword and ramming it through Edmure’s heart. “Could you send a serving girl up with an empty bottle. One used for traveling? I have a present for Jon.” Once Edmure agreed, Robb slammed the door in his face.

When he turned around, Jon was sitting upright on the bed. His lips pursed and his eyes, watery. When he looked up towards Robb, he was clearly upset. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Jon whispered. He got off the bed and checked the damaged in a nearby mirror. “He might tell someone about your treatment of me.”

“Uncle Edmure is a known fool. He does not suspect a thing,” Robb soothed. He walked over to Jon and wrapped his arms around him. Jon trembled and pulled away.  “Besides, he wouldn’t dare reveal his ignorance.”  

“You don’t know that.”

Robb persevered in his affections. He gripped onto Jon’s curls and threw him onto the bed. Jon pressed his thighs together in defiance. Robb chuckled. He kissed Jon. When the younger boy was distracted, Robb's hand slipped down to that soaking pussy. With enough force, Jon was putty in his hands. He played with Jon’s tongue until the boy spread his legs, moaning and begging like a whore. Robb sunk his finger into Jon, delighting in the tight entrance.

“I love how loose your cunt,” Robb praised. “I never need to prep you anymore because you’re always so slick and ready to take my cock. The filthiest slut I’ve ever seen. Doesn’t matter which hole I decide to pound, either way, they're both mine.” Jon’s inner walls were accommodating to Robb’s fingers, hot and smooth against his skin, fluttering around his knuckles and begging for more. Robb wanted to enter that heavenly heat, but for now, he needed to stall until the maid arrived.

Robb added another digit to the first and then another because the second went in too easily, he could not resist. When he managed three fingers inside, he spoke.

“You should join me here,” Robb told him. He slipped his fingers in and out; they were drenched with Jon’s honey and dripping onto the sheets every time he pulled out. Jon was coming like a faucet and was regaining the strength for another orgasm. At this point, Jon just wanted Robb’s cock. “We can leave early and enjoy the Neck afterward. I want to taste that freedom, that delicious moment where you can fuck wherever you like there, and no one stops you.”

“Everyone would know about us in a second. Eyes are everywhere. There are no secrets in the Neck,” Jon huffed out. Robb shoved his fingers in again. Jon whimpered and went back to being a hole Robb could vent his frustrations on.

“I want to fuck you in front of the weirwood tree,” Robb announced. “Father told me that’s where he married your mother.” Robb sighed. He added in an extra finger. “That feels good,” he said breathlessly. “You like the idea. You’re clenching onto my fingers.” Robb groaned. “You’re getting tighter. Fuck, how is that possible? It’s so hard to move with how snug you’re becoming. Imagine if my cock was inside you. Maybe we should go right now. Elope. We could consummate our marriage the way they did. I’ll fuck you in every way imaginable before getting you on your back, so I can get a good look at your face while I fuck a baby inside you.”

Jon came a second time. Robb was sleeping on an ocean tonight. He pulled out and saw his fingers covered in Jon’s honey and cream. He laughed and flicked them on the bedsheets, getting some spots onto Jon’s face. Robb leaned down and licked the mess off Jon’s face. “You should be with me,” Robb whispered. “We’ve never been apart.”

Jon was panting. “You agreed to let me go. We need to learn how to be away from each other.”

“I agreed because it is what my grandfather wants.” Robb let out a throaty chuckle. “But it is not what I want.” He tried to kiss Jon, but the younger boy turned away.

“You want me to stay in the home of someone who hates me?”

“What I _want_ —” Robb growled. He flipped Jon over so that his bare ass was in front of him. He pulled Jon's panties to the side to reveal his puckering hole. “Is to be inside you whenever I damn well please.” Had Jon not tested his patience, Robb would have plowed Jon’s prepared cunt. Instead, he needed to placate Jon’s sour mood with his cock.

Robb aligned his cock with the glistening pink entrance and sunk inside his brother. The sensation was so tight and hot that Robb’s vision blurred. Jon’s ass was the best in the kingdom, and it made him lose control every single time. When his sight came back to him, he was buried inside Jon, his balls pressed against the meat of the boy’s ass and he marveled at the way the fatty mounds cushioned his cock.

Jon moaned, and his insides twitched and clenched around Robb. Robb groaned and started to move. His cock was sliding in and out of the pretty wet hole, pumping harder at every thrust. Jon was wild for Robb. He wailed for more, asking Robb to go harder and use him. He could hear Jon’s butt cheeks slapping against his balls, the movement of those mounds sent an extra vibration to his cock. When Robb felt he was about to come, he changed the angle to curb his knot while still slamming against Jon’s prostate. As soon as Jon came, Robb pulled out in an instant. Jon was reluctant to release him. His greedy ass clung so tightly that when he pulled out, there was a loud, obscene ‘pop.’

There was a knock at that moment—perfect timing in Robb’s opinion. He covered Jon’s body with a bedsheet in case it was his family. Jon was unable to defend himself, not with his boneless body and blissed out mind. Robb tied up his trousers but kept it loose to hide his erection. He was relieved to see a maid with his request.

The bottle was bigger than he expected but Robb found that the size excited him more. He grabbed Jon’s limp body by the curls and forced his head onto Robb’s cock. Jon, worn down by Robb’s hard pounding, remained obedient. He opened his mouth with all the strength he had and let the cock slip inside. He rode Jon’s face until he knotted inside his mouth. Jon threatened to choke, but Robb gripped his throat.

“Keep it in. Don’t swallow until I tell you to. And try not to spill.”

Robb rode Jon’s face with a few urgent thrusts before coming. Jon’s cheeks expand with mouthfuls of cum. Knot orgasms were huge, sometimes even producing whole gallons.

When Robb slipped out of Jon’s mouth, a trail of cum dripped down his lips. Still, Jon obeyed the first order. He did not swallow.

Robb grinned. He took the empty bottle and pressed the opening against Jon’s lips. “Pour everything in.”

Jon obeyed, coughing as he did so. He wrapped his lips against the bottle’s opening and spilled Robb’s semen inside. When Jon was done, Robb used his fingers to pry open Jon’s mouth.

White cum coated his teeth and gums, and the look was more arousing than anything. Robb chuckled. He dipped his fingers inside and used the liquid to coat Jon’s mouth. He kissed his brother on the forehead. “Good boy,” Robb cooed. The heir raised up the bottle. Less than a quarter was filled. “But it’s not enough. You have to fill it up before you leave.”

Jon stared at him. For a second, Robb thought Jon was going to do something foolish—ask Robb what he was planning or maybe even tell him no. To Robb’s delight, the eager slut reached over to grab Robb’s cock. He started pleasuring him with his hands and lapping at the tip. Robb could feel himself getting harder; he sniffed the air and noticed an influx of pheromones; the kind that mimicked a heat. Fuck, he thought. Jon was trying to spur on a rut. He heard that only pleasure slaves and whores could use that technique and even then, it was when they were desperate.

Robb ran his hand through Jon’s curls. Jon was desperate, he thought, his little brother could not get enough of his cock.

***

Unable to shake his unease, Edmure asked for a drink with his sister. When she questioned the origins of their bonding, he told her that he was concerned about the relationship between Jon and Robb.

“He seems trapped.”

“Robb?”

Edmure gave her a strange look. “No, Jon.”

Catelyn sighed as the serving boy poured them each a glass of wine. “He is fine. His father treats him better than some of our children.”

Edmure shook his head as if she were the child. “I’m not worried about your husband. I'm concerned about the way Robb treats him. He acts like he’s this… _object_.” A stunning object, whose lips carried the perfect amount of plumpness and spoke the sweetest, softest words, Edmure could think of. Not a slut like he original considered, too gentle. 

Catelyn scoffed. “Jon has Robb wrapped around his fingers. I’m hoping the distance will do them some good.”

Edmure's petulance continued, sure abuse was on the horizon. This was one of the reasons Catelyn worried about her brother. Though his temper was unruly, he had a good heart. All his life, he yearned to be the hero of some pretty omega’s story, got involved with shameful affairs and gold-grubbing wenches. By some miracle, he had yet to father a bastard. “You’ve always liked the lost ones,” Catelyn told him, much to Edmure’s confusion. “Mind you; you could never tell the villains from the victims.”

“Cat—”

“Do you remember those stories our septa used to tell us?” Catelyn asked, running her finger around the rim of the glass. “The one about the mermaid princess?”

Edmure paused before nodding. “Yes…the mermaid who gave up her life in the sea to become human.”

“She wanted to become human for the sake of winning the prince’s heart. She loved the prince. Worshiped him more than anything in the world. To be by his side, the mermaid went to the sea witch to barter for a pair of legs. In return, she made a deal to sacrifice her soul if she could not make the prince fall in love with her. To win that bet, the sea witch sent her daughter to seduce the prince. Fascinated by this newfound beauty, the prince rejected the mermaid’s love and married the sea witch’s daughter. The mermaid leaped into the sea in sadness. Rocks crushed her body.”

Edmure frowned. “It was an awful tale for children. I stayed awake for weeks, crying.”

Despite her severity, Catelyn laughed. “You only liked the stories with happy endings.”

“I like being happy,” Edmure agreed.

Catelyn shook her head. “You think Jon is the mermaid. You want to save him before he destroys himself, but you are wrong. He is the sea witch’s daughter. He has corrupted my son with his pretty face and fragrant body. I ask you, kind brother, not to allow yourself to be fooled by his sweetness. Even the ripest peaches turn rotten when they are exposed to the sun.”

“You are being silly,” Edmure scoffed. “He is a beautiful creature.”

“And that marks his goodness?”

“He smiles so warmly. I cannot believe any badness exists in a child that docile.”

Catelyn drank the last of her wine. She considered having another cup but stopped herself by reciting the values of temperance. “I must tend to my children. You would do well to heed my advice, little brother.” Catelyn cradled her brother’s face. She remembered a time when he listened to her with such reverence. She smiled sadly. “If I die, Edmure, it will be by the hands of crannogman. Remember that at least.” She let go of her brother’s cheek and walked away.  

***

“Jon, you have to work harder if you want me to knot. If I just cum, it won’t be enough.”

Jon whimpered; he glanced over at the half-empty bottle and continued sucking on Robb’s balls. He took off his mouth to press kisses over the tip and shaft before slurping up his cock. Robb groaned; he grabbed Jon’s hair and rammed into his throat with a full erection. Jon gagged over, and over but Robb kept on pounding his throat. He held Jon while his younger brother squirmed and cried.

Jon could feel the bulge growing, forming the much-desired knot. To keep the momentum going, he slowed down his movements.  Jon stretched open his mouth and swirled his tongue whenever the head came near to provide more resistance. When the knot was halfway formed, Robb decided to take a step further. He jammed himself all the way into Jon’s throat.

It went in far too quickly; a clear indicator of the constant attention Jon got from Robb. The thought aroused him in a delicious way. He heard from his father’s men that “there was nothing better than a virgin cunt,” but he wondered if there was something better, something like the used body of an omega made gaping by himself. Jon was never going to recover from Robb. His holes would always be tight given the size of snug cunt and tense throat, but they were never going to be as taut as they once were. Robb ruined his body for other alphas. 

Robb let out a little moan and wrapped his around Jon’s throat. “I’m going to knot your throat, love. I’m going to stretch your mouth out until it becomes a third pussy for me to use. Fuck, I love how you feel around me. Let me shove myself in more, make my cock feel good when you wrap around me.”  Robb continued to jerk back and forth. Jon choked, but the extra spittle smoothed the entrance down his throat. It was like he was getting wet over Robb. The perfect slut. Jon reached forward to steady himself on his hips. Robb continued to jerk back and forth until it was clear he was about to come. He dragged the knot out of Jon’s throat, an action that hit a switch within his brother. Jon came while gagging on Robb’s forceful retreat. Robb followed; he pushed Jon’s face against his crotch and came a few pints into Jon’s mouth.

This time Jon was unable to keep himself from swallowing a good amount of cum. He moaned. It tasted so good, he thought. He wanted to fill his belly so badly. Knowing it would upset Robb to do so, he dashed over to the bottle and released the contents of his mouth. Robb sighed in contentment. He fell to the bed for a break and watched Jon try to fill the bottle. His lips twitched when Jon gulped the remaining contents, unable to sacrifice more for the bottle.

“You’re such a beautiful slut,” Robb accused lovingly.

Jon blushed, having been caught. Robb gestured him forward, and while the boy complied, he did not dare meet Robb’s eyes. He caressed Jon’s face. “You were hungry for me, weren’t you? It must have been torture—all that thick, virile cum in your mouth and not being able to swallow a single drop. That’s why you disobeyed me, isn’t it?”

Jon nodded meekly. “You taste so good, Robb.”

Robb took the bottle from Jon’s hands. It was almost full. One more load should complete it. “Do you know why I’m doing this?”

Jon hesitated. He shook his head.

Robb chuckled and allowed Jon to lie down next to him while he played with his hair.

“I bought you that bracelet so that alphas understand that you belonged to me. I am giving you this bottle as a reminder for yourself. You are mine. This is my way of guaranteeing that I am always with you.” Robb kissed Jon. The boy closed his eyes and purred in pleasure. When they finished, Robb raised the bottle and stated they had one more round to go. Jon whimpered.

“This is plenty,” Jon told him. The bottle was huge, and Jon’s throat was throbbing.

Robb quirked his lips. He grabbed the bottle and poured the cum onto his fingers.

“What are you doing?” Jon moved forward to stop him but was motionless when Robb held out his hand to collect his cum. The muskiness overwhelmed Jon’s nostrils. Jon salivated as the phantom flavors ghosted over his taste buds. His gray eyes were hypnotized by the way the thick milk came out of the bottle. He licked his lips when the mixture coated Robb’s fingers. Unfocused, Robb gripped Jon’s throat. Jon gasped when Robb shoved his fingers into his mouth. His shock was replaced by arousal when the taste of _Robb_ filled his mouth again. This time, Robb did not give him the command to hold it in. Jon _sucked_. He slathered his tongue around those fingers and licked the tips dry. When he realized there was more cum further in, he swallowed the fingers up to the knuckle.

He heard Robb chuckle, but the chance to quench his thirst allowed him to drown out the mocking. “I know you,” he heard Robb tell him. “You need me inside you. You’d go mad without my cock— _this_ ,” Robb growled as he poured his cum over Jon’s face, “Is your medicine. And we need it to last or else who knows what will happen to you without me.”

Robb pulled out his fingers. Jon stuck out his tongue to collect the cum running down his face. He was intoxicated. He wiped the semen off his cheeks and wrung the remains out of his ear to slurp up from his hands. Robb’s cock twitched.

“Since you’ve come to my understanding, I think it’s time we start again. And we have to make up for the bit we lost.”

Jon’s shoulders dropped; the fear of the upcoming act made him reluctant to go further. Robb chuckled and reassured him that he could do it. “You’ll do it for me,” Robb encouraged, his hold on Jon was more than physical at this point. “And you’ll do it for yourself. Imagine how light your body will become after you’ve sated me. All those beautiful omegas,” he whispered, relishing in the tension in Jon’s muscles. “Will never pose a threat once my balls are sucked dry. You’re going to make sure I can’t get hard until I see your pretty mouth.”

Jon took a deep breath. After a few moments of reinforcement, Jon pulled himself together to provide for Robb’s needs. He moved forward to straddle Robb’s lap. His cunt pressed against Robb’s firm cock and massaged it between his pussy lips. Robb chuckled at the determined expression on Jon’s face.

To further his efforts, Robb gripped his ass and pushed him down so that he was grinding on top of Robb’s cock. It was not enough, but Jon’s struggle made a lovely picture. "Ride me harder, love. I want to feel your ass bounce on top of me.” It was his most remarkable feature.

Jon kept moving, and with some careful motivation from Robb, Jon was rubbing himself raw on Robb’s member. The cock hardened to a necessary degree for fucking, but he needed more stimulation to build up another knot. Robb pinched and slapped Jon’s ass and thighs to make it happen. Though it was hurting Jon, he could not help his arousal. He panted and moaned, and his cum gushed over him. He was a whore for Robb and Robb loved that there was no one, not Edmure or Willas or Wylla, who could change that.

***

When the bottle was full, Jon only remained conscious for Robb’s voice. He was breathless and limp, while Jon was purring in delight. Robb rubbed his belly, a small bump indicating Robb’s hefty load. He was so happy he had such an attentive alpha, one that knew his needs better than he did himself.

“Have no more than a small cup a day, maybe a drop or two if you’re less needy,” Robb instructed.

“A drop’s not enough,” Jon hummed. He was sucking on Robb’s fingers like candy. Robb's last load was overflowing, and Jon was pleasantly stuffed. Robb sighed, but there was no annoyance in his tone.

“At least try to preserve until I come get you.”  

“Don’t talk to any of the omegas when you arrive at the Neck,” Jon stated seriously. A frown marred his pretty face. “Introduce yourself in the open and ask someone to send you to me. If you try to find me on your own, I guarantee you’ll end up in some unknown crannog with a heat-drunk omega on your lap.”

Robb chuckled. He assured Jon that there was no one else for him.

Jon got up, his bliss waning as reality settled in.

“What is the matter?” Robb asked.

Jon was silent at first. Robb continued to push him with kisses on his neck and playful nipple tugs, urging him to speak. Jon rubbed his hands against Robb’s chest.

“I have your bracelet and scent to ward off alphas, but you have nothing of mine. That is not fair,” he told Robb. “How will someone know not to steal you from me?"

Jon returned to straddle Robb’s lap. Robb groaned.

“I swear, Jon. You have drained me of my will and strength. I have no more to give.”

“Then think of this as vengeance.”

Robb relaxed onto the bed. Though his cock was limp, he had more than enough parts to satisfy his lover’s playfulness. He dipped his fingers into Jon’s sore cunt and scooped out his cum. He brought his stained figures to Jon’s lips and fed him like a baby. Jon sucked eagerly. When Robb tried to pull out, Jon bit him.

“Fuck,” Robb winced and pulled out. The blood dripped from his fingers. Jon gasped, but alongside the fear was his excitement. Robb caught it. He would have been a fool not to. With a growl, he moved his wrist to Jon’s lips.

“Bite me,” Robb ordered.

“Huh?”

“You want to claim me, do so. I want the whole world to know that I am proud to wear a collar of my own because my omega is beautiful and fierce and genuine.”

Jon breathing became harsh. Without further goading, he leaned down and bit Robb’s wrist. The bite was nowhere hard enough; it left indentures but no marks. They would heal in a day.

“Harder,” Robb commanded.

Jon obeyed.

“Harder.”

Jon’s teeth sunk into Robb’s skin.

“Harder.” This time Robb gripped his throat and with a voice just above a threat, he told Jon, “Prove to me how much you love me.”

Jon bit as hard as he could. He teeth punctured Robb’s skin, and there was blood all over his face. The sight was terrorizing and arousing. If he could, Robb would have fucked him again. Instead, he kissed Jon and painted his flesh with blood. His flavor was delicious mixed with Jon’s saliva. Despite being the one marked, Robb had never felt like he owned Jon more.  

***

Robb walked with Jon to the camps, and yet it felt like an execution. Jon told him not to be dramatic. “Your mother was not completely erroneous when she suggested we test our independence.”

“You are taking her side again?” Robb asked, amused. “I liked it when you were fighting over my affection.”

Jon paused. Then, he kissed Robb on the cheek and expressed a sigh against his ear. “Have you always known? That my act of the docile bastard was a guise for the wickedness in my soul.”

Robb frowned. He pulled away so that he could look into Jon’s eyes. “There is no evil in your soul. If you were any more divine, I would see your face on a heart tree.”

Jon sighed in relief. He closed the distance between their bodies so that Robb can wrap his arms around his waist. The whole world can see, and Jon wants them to. “Are you ready?” Robb asked him.

“As ready as ever,” Jon said. “I was not lying. I missed my friends and my family, but it will not compare to my longing for you.” He glanced over at the looming castle. “Will you be alright?”

“As much as you loathed to admit it, I am half a southerner. A Southron, they say here,” Robb declared with a small smile. “I should experience my roots.”

“That's one way to look at it,” He laughed while his fingers clutched onto Robb’s shirt. The one he picked out before he left the castle.

Robb kissed his hand. “I will come back to you.”

Jon kissed his cheek, a spot dangerously close to his lips. His tongue brushed against his skin. Robb did not care if all the Riverlands could see them. He wanted to ravish Jon like a man with no honor. He recognized the kiss was a test. Jon is solidifying his self-control. Robb tightened his hold on Jon to prevent his rashness.

“I will wait for you,” Jon told him.  

“Good.” Robb closed his eyes. He will not grope him, he told himself. No matter how beautiful his brother is. “I look forward to your longing," he said as he kissed Jon's bracelet and let his lips ride up his arms.

Jon swatted him away, a bit of joy in their solemn departure. “You are a cruel man, Stark.”

“As long as you allow me, Snow,” Robb replied.

Desmond called out to them; he was Jon’s sworn knight for this journey. His mother scoffed at the decision to send Jon, a guard. 

“There is no safer place for Jon than the Neck.” When her daughters asked her to elaborate, she spoke with solemnity. “Their devotion to House Reed goes beyond duty or love. They know the truth, anyone who harms a Reed will be cursed. Their lands will sink to sand and their food to rot.”

When Robb asked how she knows this, she said that everyone in the Riverlands knew it. “The Frey like to gossip.” There was a fiddle in her hands, making her touch up the ribbons on her dress, which made him believe it was not the whole story.

The memory satisfied Robb’s fear. What was left was the pain. He clutched onto Jon’s cuff when the boy tried to move. When he let go, Jon sent Robb a regretful glance. He brushed his lips against Robb one more, just to hurt himself. “I love you,” he swore.

Robb nodded, his face betraying the coolness in his voice. “I love you, too.” Jon walked away without another word. All Robb could do was watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was disgustingly short and also late. I actually had a lot more planned but I was tired and decided to move it towards the next chapter. I am so sorry. For real, it will not happen again. I am going to be on time next week. Chapters will be posted on Saturday afternoon. I swear, none of this late shit. 
> 
> Though I loved the revised funeral scene in the television scene in the series, I have to admit that it’s sad we only get to see the foolish side of Edmure Tully. He may not be smart, but he is kind and desperately wants to be a hero. He’s like Sansa in his idealism—he wants to save the smallfolk, lead armies, etc. But unlike Sansa, who was forced to grow from her horrible life experiences, Edmure remained sheltered in Riverrun until it was too late. At least that's my opinion. :)
> 
> Next chapter features Robb’s experience at Riverrun and Howland appears.


	16. Chapter 16

Jon’s departure visibly brightened Lord Tully’s mood. His high spirits prospered throughout dinner, from the introductory course of fresh oysters to their celebratory cuisine of broiled fish simmered in a lemon sauce that took fourteen hours to cook. He presented their gifts the same time the serving omegas brought out the clam stew. Lord Tully was every bit the doting grandfather. He gifted Sansa and Arya with jewelry made from freshwater pearls and sea glass while rewarding Robb a lance for his achievements and a sword for his future.

“You never treated me so well,” Edmure complained. He smiled against the rim of his goblet while Catelyn giggled into her sleeve.

“I spoil you rotten, you little beast,” Lord Tully huffed. “I’ll treat you better once you’ve married and father me a grandchild or two. Don’t make your sisters do all the work.”

“If he married, the whorehouses would go out of business,” muttered Catelyn with fondness. She was sitting beside her father, and though his hearing waned from time to time, he was fortunate enough to catch that little snippet. He howled in laughter.

Robb smiled from Lord Tully’s liveliness. Though he was displeased to be separated from Jon on account of Lord Tully’s sensitivity, the man was still his grandfather. He was happy that the man was well; it made his mother beam like the stars.

While they waited for dessert, a serving boy arrived to change Robb’s wine. “It’ll be more fitting for the palette,” he explained; an appreciative gaze accompanied his words.

Robb was never unaware of his attractiveness, but without Jon’s intoxicating scent overshadowing the other omegas, their arousal became more noticeable. Out of respect for Jon, he turned away after thanking the omega.  The boy made a little noise of disbelief before serving the others.

Edmure chuckled; he assumed the son of the honorable Lord Stark was shy due to inexperience. He scooted over to his nephew and told him not to be afraid to take liberties with the staff.

“Quite a few of them were hired based on their more… _accommodating_ natures,” he whispered, nodding over to the same boy who was pouring wine into his mother’s goblet.

Robb smirked, not because he was tempted but because he found the offer no more alluring than week-old cabbage stranded on a gourmet banquet. The omega was endearing as many of the servers were, but all failed to elicit a reaction from the Northern heir. Endearing was no match for enticing, and tolerable was a slave to divine beauty.   

“I have no intentions of dallying with strangers while I am here,” Robb answered smoothly. “I am half-Tully, and we honor family first.” He told Edmure, “I hope you can lend me your guidance before I leave, uncle. I want to garner as much wisdom as I can before I go home.”

Edmure was never a scholar and barely had the mind of a student. There was not a person alive who could ever say they relied on Edmure Tully for his acumen. Robb could see the way his eyes lit up and knew he was safe from further proposals—at least for the night.

The desserts came before Edmure could discuss his plans for their bonding. Robb thanked the timing. Edmure was without son or brother and planned to turn Robb into a surrogate. When the younger heir reached out to collect his share of the lemon cakes, his sleeve pulled in and revealed his wrist. Edmure’s eyes widened.

“By the gods, Robb. Did you get attacked by an animal on your way here? Look at the size of that thing!”

Robb was confused by the statement until he noticed how everyone’s eyes honed in on his wrist. Ah, he thought with more composure than what was reasonable for his carelessness. Jon’s love bite was on display. Rather than covering it up, he chose to ride his calm back to his seat. 

He refused to show that he was alarmed by its discovery. There was something disgraceful about denying Jon when his lover was not there to watch. He was not going to let go of his love whenever it served him to do so. Jon may call him foolish, but Robb was no coward.

“Where did you get that?” Catelyn asked. “You didn’t have it before you went to your room. Did you get into a fight with Jon?” Her voice was soft, but Robb could read into her sharpened crow’s feet and how the lines of her mouth became more pronounce. The subject of their brotherly relationship made her wary, and her wariness manifested in age. She seemed older—as if the Mother lost a bet to the Stranger.

“Get what?” Robb pretended to be surprised when saw the bruise. “Ah, I didn’t notice that. Jon and I were roughhousing in my guest room for a bit. We got a bit out of hand. I didn’t even notice,” he lied. He hoped that downplaying the injury would conclude that the matter was not dire.

Alas, Robb forgotten that these were strange lands and northern proclivities were not permitted within these walls. His grandfather trembled with anger. With more force than Robb thought possible for a pestilent man, Lord Tully slammed his fist and turned to his daughter.

“Your husband allows his bastard to attack his heir? What sort of lawless household does that man run?” 

Catelyn took a deep breath. She feared the effect her father’s anger would have on his health and attempted to cool his fire.

“Father, please. It is not a matter to lose your health over."

"So I should watch while that child roams like trueborn and disgrace my grandchildren?"

"Eddard recognizes Jon Snow as his bastard, but the child has no place in the line of succession for Winterfell. Even Arya will have claim over him.” She tried to smile for both their sakes. “Why worry ourselves over a pointless matter? There’s no harm in having them believe that they are siblings.”

“We are siblings,” Arya snapped, though no one of age listened. “Jon is our brother,” she insisted to deaf ears. Sansa grabbed her hand and told her to be silent. "The adults were discussing important matters," she scolded. Arya pulled her hand away and watched the scene before her. 

Lord Tully pushed for an unhappy revelation. “He has issue, does he not?”

Catelyn hesitated to answer. She tried to explain with diplomacy. “Lord Stark has prepared a dowry and inheritance should he pass before the former is used.”

“Jon is my brother,” Robb told him. Unlike Arya, his words were heard. “That is his right.”

Catelyn groaned at her son’s rashness.

“He should have never been rewarded such _privileges_.” Lord Tully shook his head. “Think of your children, Catelyn. Their reputations will be marred should Jon marry into a family whose station rival their spouses.”

“That will never happen,” Catelyn swore, more as an assurance to herself if anything. She told herself every night after the ceremony and on some days; she believed it to be true. Hearing it from another person, her father, no less, made all those insecurities resurface. “Jon is a bastard, father; times have not changed so drastically.”

Lord Tully scoffed. “The skies have darkened for nobility, Cat. Titles are cheap. I’ve seen merchants buy a lordship with silk.”

“Then that is their own business,” Robb pointed out irritably. “I am not concerned with them. I am a Stark. Winterfell is my priority. The North is my priority. Above all, my family holds my heart, and I would burn both to the ground to ensure the safety of the last. Jon shares my blood, and I am proud to say so.” Robb shook his head. “This is an irrelevant issue.”

Lord Tully sighed at his grandson. There was no resentment directed at his rudeness, merely pity that the boy could be so naïve. The patronization boiled Robb’s blood. 

“Robb, understand that out of all the children, you are in a most precarious situation. You allow him to capture your heart and he will hold it hostage in his hand. That is the nature of bastards.”

Fireworks followed the declaration and not one of them were lit by Robb. Arya slammed both her hands onto the table, drawing the adults’ attentions for the first time. She was tired and frustrated and angry. No one listened to her, and she wanted to be heard. 

She loved Jon, too. 

“None of this is Jon’s fault! Stop taking it out on him!”

“Arya,” Sansa pleaded with her from her seat. She grabbed her dress and tried to pull her down, but the omega’s anger increased her strength tenfold.  Arya batted Sansa's hand away.

The argument unleashed a fury of unresolved issues, the most prominent being the way Robb monopolized Jon’s attention. For years, Arya's had to suffer through Jon's divided love amongst her siblings, often leaving her with the short end of the stick. First, it was on account of her mother's wishes and her duties as Stark's youngest omega daughter. Then, their activities diminished because of Robb's claim over his freedom. Robb took Jon out riding. Robb was the one to escort Jon to parties. Robb got to sleep with him. Robb got to say goodbye. She was already last place in her parents’ hearts, but she would not be the last in Jon’s.

“Robb is always telling Jon what to do! Jon listens because Robb is the heir and he’s a bastard! It’s not fair! Robb bosses him around and Jon never tells him no! Not ever! Not even when Jon wants to!” Arya accused.

“Arya, don’t make such vile accusations—” Sansa reprimanded.

“What do you mean, even when he wants to?” Robb interrupted. He glared at his youngest sister. “Jon consents to our activities because he loves me. He doesn’t tell me no because he wants me to be happy. He chose me.” There was a fever in his tone, and from that point on, Catelyn held her breath for her youngest’s fate.

“He is my brother, too,” Arya reminded him. “And I would never treat him the way you do.”

“Please, stop it, both of you!”

“I treat him with reverence. He has never been short of luxury or love by my side. I have never denied him anything!”

“And what do you get in return?”

“Arya, you are acting just horrible!” Sansa shouted. “Stop it!”

Robb’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot help who Jon preferences.”

“You’re wrong!” Arya yelled. “You don’t know what he wants! You force him to believe that your desires are his own. He used to play dolls with Sansa and ride horses with me. He doesn’t do any of that now because you don’t allow it!”

Robb knocked over his chair. He marched over to his little sister, and though his mother screamed at him to calm down and Sansa begged Arya to apologize for her behavior, Robb did not stop. Never in Robb’s life had he ever contemplated striking his siblings so brutally. He reminded himself that the action was unsightly and wrong and would cause Jon to hate him so terribly, he might establish abstinence as a punishment.

Robb crouched down to meet Arya’s face. He did not lay a hand on her, much to his mother’s relief. “There is no one Jon loves more than me,” he told her without a doubt in his mind. He raised his hand, and she flinched noticeably. Robb grabbed the back of her head and kissed her forehead. There was no affection in his lips, just a warning. “Even on my deathbed, that honor will not go to you, Arya. He would sooner follow me to my grave."  

Arya was silent after the declaration but not beaten. Arya clenched her fist and opened her mouth to respond. She was interrupted by a violent coughing fit that came from the head of the table.

Both siblings turned to the side to see Lord Holster Tully hacking up his meal onto the ground. Catelyn and Edmure dashed over to his side. Arya and Robb had the decency to end their argument. Robb ordered one of serving girls to call for a maester. He helped Edmure in lifting up his grandfather to keep him from choking on his own spittle. The gesture was enough to keep him stable until Maester Vyman arrived. With the help of Lord Tully’s personal guards, they carried him to Vyman’s den.   

***

It had taken three hours of treatment before Maester Vyman informed them that Lord Tully was stable. “Stress,” he told them with aggravation and a judgmental stare, “He riled up his heart and that added pressure to his stomach. As long as he keeps a cool head, he should recover nicely.”

Catelyn sighed in relief. “Thank you, maester. Can we see him now?” 

Vyman nodded. “Go ahead, but don’t take long. He needs his rest, and so do you. I’ll be staying in the room beside him. His guards are on watch. They will tell me if anything happens.” He glanced over at her, Edmure, and Robb. The two girls were sent off to bed hours ago; Catelyn wanted to prevent a direct delivery of bad news. She spent her waiting time forging a blunt mace to soften the potential blow. “He will be fine,” Vyman reassured them. Catelyn smiled gratefully and stored the weapon for a rainy day.

“That’s a relief,” Edmure said. He stood up. “I’ll check on him first.” He walked into the room with a back drenched with sweat. When Catelyn saw the stain, she was taken back. She had misjudged her brother. When their father was carted away by his men, he reacted with an uncertain amount of nonchalance. He told her not to be concerned. Their father was too stubborn to die, he said with a chuckle. She thought him crass and childish. She screamed and scolded the youngest Tully like he was ten again. It was then she realized that he was brave for her; Edmure had survived these scares for over a decade alone since she and Lysa left. His home was Riverrun, not Winterfell or the Eyrie. No matter where he traveled or how many women he bedded, he would never be able to escape the worse of their father’s health.

Edmure was doing his part for their father. It was time Catelyn did the same. She turned to her son and was somewhat satisfied to see his guilt. He caught her disapproving gaze and bowed his head.

“I am sorry,” he told her. “I should have never raised my voice.”

“You shouldn’t have done a lot of things tonight. The least of them was raising your voice,” Catelyn snapped. “Talking back to your grandfather? Fighting with your little sister? You know better than that. I taught you better than that.” She rested her head in her hands and bemoaned the situation. “Maybe as a child, I could have understood your foolishness, but you are a man, Robb. I have never been so embarrassed in my life.” That was a lie that made her pause. She had a slew of trauma following her marriage to Ned, and the shame would never end as long as Howland Reed had a cunt to plow. “This is not the behavior befitting the heir of Winterfell.”

Robb sighed in shame. “I was angry. And unprepared,” he admitted. “Out of respect for my grandfather, I agreed to let Jon leave. I did not agree to let anyone drag his name through the mud. He is my brother, mother. Grandfather’s words would have never been accepted in the North—”

“This is not the North! You are not a lord yet. You are Lord Stark’s son, but you have no power or influence in the South!” Catelyn shouted. The outburst was lightning that stunned Robb silent and still. Catelyn massaged her temples and resumed a calm voice though her irritation lingered. “I should have made things clear about what to expect, but I thought it wasn’t necessary. I was wrong. Jon’s influence over you has proven to extend the distance.”

“This is not about Jon.”

“And again you are mistaken,” Catelyn countered. “From the moment Jon arrived at Winterfell, you have shoveled the dirt and snow to form a road that suited his life. It has affected you as a person, and I was willing to stay silent as long as you maintained your good graces but not here, Robb. It is because of Jon that my father lays on a resting bed.” She sighed. “Please, be good. Make me proud, Robb. Put me first and honor my wishes above your brother’s. Make the last of my days in Riverrun a joyous occasion. I may never get another chance to be with my father again.”  

If Robb were a better son, he would have promised to heed her authority. Instead, he took her hand in his and promised vindication. “Allow me to see grandfather after Uncle Edmure. I will apologize for my behavior but not my words.”

Catelyn was about to reprimand him, but Robb redeemed himself. “I will tell him that my behavior was a result of losing the tourney to a future bannerman. I will say that the humiliation made me rash and I sought an outlet for my aggression. I love my brother,” he told her. Catelyn sighed at the confession. “But that was an excuse to look for a fight.” He swallowed as he developed a better backstory, more reasons that would please the Tully patriarch. “In the North, we seek out the highest challenges in regards to combat or debate. I was told that Lord Tully, my grandfather, was unparalleled in both subjects. He did not disappoint me, but I was wrong to take such an uncouthly tone towards him. From this point on, I will respect his authority as a great liege lord.”

Catelyn’s lips twitched in approval, but she was not ready to release him.   

“And what if he brings up Jon? Can you control yourself if he continues to speak out against your _father’s bastard_?” She emphasized the last two words, knowing they would spur Robb’s offense.

Robb tightened his grip on his mother’s wrist. “I will change the topic.”

“And if he continues to sink his teeth into the issue?”

Robb narrowed his eyes. “I will hold my tongue,” he promised. “For your sake.” And for Jon’s. The more influence Jon was perceived to have over him, the harder it would be to remove the stigma against him. There was nothing that sickened a will more than gossip.

Catelyn accepted his answer. Edmure opened the door and told them that his father was ready for rest but was willing to take on more visitors. Catelyn kissed Robb’s forehead and said to go ahead. He obeyed.

Edmure raised an eyebrow. “You will let him enter alone?”

“Of course. He wanted to apologize to his grandfather for his behavior.”

“Huh,” Edmure made a strange, appraising face. “I did not see that coming. With how incensed he was at father, I’m surprised he isn’t returning to the North.” Edmure let out a hearty laugh. “But if he is your child he must be proper.”

“He is,” Catelyn agreed. “Robb is a good boy without all those horrible influences around him.” 

***

Maester Vyman’s predictions proved accurate, and Lord Tully’s health recovered after an eloquent apology and a good night’s sleep. He was put on bed rest for another day and skipped a hearty breakfast for plain gruel, much to his chagrin. Robb manifested the following morning as an ideal heir. He greeted Sansa with adoration, complimenting her hairstyle and the added embroidery on her dress—she put in an intricate pattern of fishes swirling into a pool on her sleeves. Sansa took his compliments as what they weren’t—sincere. After her, Robb expressed his regrets from last night to his youngest sister. He kissed her cheek, and though Arya did not forgive him, she did not move away, either.

After eating his morning fruit, Edmure suggested they visit the townsfolk and travel around the city. Robb refused and opted to spend time with his grandfather. Together, they talked about the past and shared a spot of distilled liquor. When Robb commented on whether that was a suitable drink for a man in his condition, he responded with the reassurance that the strength of the glass cleaned the evils in his stomach.

Robb never failed to fake his interest. When Lord Tully’s ramblings became madness, Robb remained attentive, even making a general comment or two that was well-received by the ailing lord.

The next day, when sanity settled into Lord Tully’s mind, the man took his grandson fishing. Catelyn protested, but the maester informed her that to keep his health, he needed to be at an equilibrium of relaxation and activity. 

"Line fishing fits both those requirements." 

Northern fishing, which involved risking their lives on ice, spearing, or netting, was different than southern fishing. When Robb arrived at the lake, he was surprised by the tranquil environment, everything from the sparkling water to the warm breeze alarmed him. The atmosphere was deathly quiet. He wondered if they were wandering into a trap and announced his trepidation.

His grandfather laughed hard enough that Robb was worried about another coughing fit. “Robb, have you ever been fishing?”

“Of course,” Robb answered, a little offended. “My father and I went ice-fishing when lakes were frozen, and I’ve traveled to the waters near Bear Island during the season.”

His response restored Lord Tully’s cheer. “Robb, have you ever fished with a line? From the shore to a lake?”

Robb became confused. “You can’t possibly get very far with a line.”

“You don’t have to when fishing in freshwater. There’s plenty of good fish nearby.”

“Don’t we have to get inside the water?”

Lord Tully shook his head and chuckled. “Not necessarily,” he explained. “We just set the bait and wait for them to bite.”

“Won’t that be dangerous if they get out of control? We’ve had some fish almost tip our boats. We find their fierceness makes them more appetizing.”

He grinned. “Our fish are less aggressive than the ones at sea, though plenty put up a good fight. They are no less delicious for being gentle.” He encouraged Robb to sit down. “Besides, We are fishing for pleasure, not food. You do not have to be so serious.”

Robb understood the principle of fishing and hunting for bonding and entertainment—given that they occurred in parties and groups. The activities encouraged companions to discuss strategy and forced communication when they waited for their prey. The idea of fishing for _leisure_ , however, was a mystery to him. Nonetheless, Robb was ready to wrap his mind around the lesson. 

Holster shook his head in amusement. Northerners loved to make things harder for themselves, he mused.

Regardless of Robb’s peculiarities, he was open to Lord Tully’s teachings. For an old man, an attentive ear was something of a luxury.

“The key to enjoying fishing is patience. Patience is a quality of character unmatched by any other trait and fishing is an activity that helps hone it for the future.” He tossed his reel into the water. “As a lord, Robb, there are going to be days that test the limits of your patience. Days like that, you might cast for hours without a single bite. On other days, there’s always a creature biting, one after the other. Fishing is unpredictable enough to give you a range of experiences. You have to think on your feet; you have to decide whether or not the beast is worth reeling in or if it put up a good enough fight to live another day. Sometimes you lose the fish. Sometimes one never comes. That doesn’t mean you give up forever.”

Robb chuckled. He mimicked his grandfather’s actions and dropped his reel into the water. “I suppose there’s lesson to be had in everything.” 

“Yes,” Lord Tully nodded. He patted a spot next to his seat. “Sit, relax. Take notice of your surroundings and enjoy the good earth that the Seven has rewarded us. Life passes by so fast for an old man like me—fishing slows everything down.”

Robb conceded to his request. Though he found the endeavor dull, he dared not disappoint his grandfather. He waited like a good dog and when the fish came, pretended to be more excited than he was. The grin on his grandfather’s face was worth the performance.

“You’re doing very well,” his grandfather complimented.

“I have a good teacher.” Robb reeled the fish in. “Besides, I understand the importance of the patience you praise.” His cock had endured three years of longing before he was allowed stretch open his little brother. The wait was worth the pleasure. Robb was to reside in Riverrun for five more days. Afterward, he would need a week’s travel before he could stick his tongue up Jon’s soaked cunt. The things he planned to do to him would make a whore blush.

“I wish your uncle was so amendable. He rather lose himself to wenching and wine than listen to me speak.”

Robb threw the fish on the side and prepared another bait. “I’m sure Uncle Edmure cares a great deal about you.”

“Oh, he cares a great deal about a lot of things. He cares about what people think of him and about being the hero and collecting the glory.” Lord Tully sighed. “Do you know what happens to lords like my son?”

Robb did not respond.

“They are used, just as I was. When Robert’s Rebellion happened, several houses rebelled against me. I had it coming; given the moments I was more reckless with my governance.” Robb pretended not to be aware of the truth. He heard from Maester Luwin that Lord Tully was known for dealing lowered taxes to his more 'faithful' nobles. Loyalty could not be bought with coin. “Do you know what’s the best way to ensure the loyalty of a lord?”

“What?’

“Grandchildren.”

Robb raised an eyebrow. Lord Tully explained, “There is nothing a lord wants more than to see his daughter or son wedded to a liege lord. If they do that, they are almost guaranteed that their grandchild will become one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. We all want our legacy to have meaning when we pass. We want to ensure that our name is mired with laurels and prestige. So we fight and scheme and do what we must to have the honor bestowed upon us.” Lord Tully gave his words time to wash over Robb before speaking again. “Our names are what last after we die. We need to nurture them. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” Robb answered. His lips twitched upwards. “But I have no interests in such matters.”

Lord Tully paused. He saw his grandson had removed his gaze from him and turned to the lake.  

“A name is important, and I am proud to be a Stark, but it is not the only thing that lingers when we die.”

“Then what does?”

Robb did not answer him. Out of the woodwork, Edmure arrived. He sauntered over to them and swung his arm around his nephew. “There you are! Father, what do you think you’re doing dragging a virile young man like Robb to an elder’s activity like fishing? He is in Riverrun for less than a week! He should be visiting the brothels and flirting with barmaids!”

Lord Tully scoffed at his child. “I am educating him on the merits you never learned.”

Edmure laughed like his father, Robb noted. His uncle boasted that he was stealing Robb away to educate him on the pleasures of Southron women. “Trust me, Robb. I know the best places in town.”

"He's been to all of them." 

Robb chuckled in amusement. “I’m content spending the day with grandfather, Uncle Edmure.”

Lord Tully beamed, smugness all over his face. Edmure rolled his eyes.

“Father’s health is not that bad. You don’t have to lie,” he countered.

Holster swatted his son’s arm. “Cheeky brat,” he muttered. “I should have beaten you more.” There was hardly any bite to his words. He got up and announced his departure. “My son’s boom should have scared off the fish. Go with your uncle. Keep him in line in case he does something foolish,” he instructed, shooing him away like a fly. “Or just plow him with enough wine to keep him _nimble_ ,” he teased, humming a familiar tune.

Edmure turned red. “Father, you promised never to speak of it!”

The man’s booming laugh could be heard, even when his stature was no longer seen. Edmure groaned. He turned to his nephew and gestured him in the direction of the city. “Come, dear boy. The town is swimming with omegas lusting for a cock hidden behind a pocket of gold. My treat!” He announced.

Robb marveled at the pride loaded into the commentary. His father would die if he ever made such a declaration.

***

Edmure took him to a tavern as a preview for what he planned. After they had ordered two cups of ale and fried fish critters, Edmure presented Robb with a booklet to read while they wait.  

“You never struck me as a reader,” Robb noted as he took the papers from his hand. “I figured you’d claim history as maester’s work.” 

 “You are not wrong about that.” Edmure admitted. “But, my dear nephew, that piece of literature is something us alphas can use. It’s more than scholar’s dribbles; it’s a review of the finest entertainment Riverrun has to offer.”

Robb raised an eyebrow. He read the first paragraph out loud. “Northside. Elsa. Blue eyes that make you want to strip naked and swim within the waters of Riverrun before fucking on the sand like children. An odd picture.”

“The job does not necessarily draw the attention of poets.”

“You read this garbage?”

“More than any of the Seven’s scriptures,” Edmure told him shamelessly. “And that is not trash. That is a guide to some of the best whores in Riverrun. It tells us noblemen who we should yearn for when we’re whacking our cocks in the bin.”

Robb shook his head. “I prefer the Tales from Valyria.”

The ale arrived alongside the food. Edmure took a swig of his drink. “You would. Thus is the consequence of being the son of the honorable Lord Stark.” The next time Edmure smiled, it was without mirth. “Unless, of course, when my sister is concerned.”

Robb gave him a tired look, and if the man were half as observant as he would like to be, he would have noticed appraisal accompanied the exhaustion. Robb prayed to whoever was listening that this conversation would not turn violent. Edmure relieved his fears when he took another gulp and declared he intended to loosen his nephew’s bones with a good fucking. “The tavern operates a brothel upstairs. Check out page four. ‘Lyros. A cunt that tastes like churned butter.’”

“I’m not interested.”

Edmure remained unconvinced. He shook his head in pity. “Robb, knowing my sister and good brother, they’ve kept you in a cage your entire life. You are not in Winterfell anymore; no eyes are watching you.” Edmure gestured a nearby maid for more ale. The one who walked towards them was the tawdry type described in the pamphlet. “You don’t have to be perfect, but you do have to become a man.” Edmure’s idea of masculinity was a warrior who fought, fucked and drank. To prove the right to indulgence, Edmure sat an omega on his lap while she refilled his ale. She did not fight his advances and giggled his name as if he were a naughty child.

He must have been a frequent patron, Robb observed.

Edmure wasted no time lifting up her dress to showcase how easily he could have her. He stuck two fingers inside her, fucking them in and out while she dripped over the floor. Her moans were heard throughout the tavern, but most of the customers paid them no mind. Some ignored them while others whipped out their cocks for a stroke.

Edmure played with the girl’s nipples and planted kisses on her neck and lips, sucking on her flesh.  The way he manhandled her sparked Robb’s alpha instincts. He imagined bending Jon over a table while an entire tavern watched his little brother get used.

“Think of this as a treat before a proper meal,” Edmure suggested. “I’ll take you to a finer place tonight, but there’s nothing wrong with their mouths. Which do you prefer, boy or girl?”

“Boy,” Robb said immediately before cursing himself. “I mean: I don’t partake.”

The tavern was not catered to the wealthy, and none of the omegas were encouraged to display elegance or class. They were there to make coin. A new omega came over to proposition Robb. The first thing Robb’s eyes go to were his breasts. They were huge. Though Robb opted to ignore them, he found himself being bombarded with illicit promises.

Robb excused the young man by claiming he was flattered by his beauty. “But I am uninterested in carnal activities outside my marriage bed,” he told them more rigidly than he would have liked. His lie was accompanied by a flawless and well-meaning smile. The whores gave Edmure an incredulous look, debating whether Robb was simple or impotent.

Edmure sighed and told all the omegas to leave. “You can't tell me you aren’t the least bit tempted.”

Robb shrugged. “I’ve sworn to my little brother that I would never embrace someone who was not as beautiful as him.”

Edmure chuckled at the preposterous vow—they must have made it when they were children and Robb was too much of a noble fool to forsake it. “You will have your maidenhood forever,” the heir of Riverrun proclaimed, “if that is your standard.” Another joke came to mind and however crude, Edmure had to say it. “Or else adopt the Targaryen method and pry those pretty thighs open.”  

To Edmure's pleasure, Robb found humor in his mockery. “Jon is eager to please. All I’d have to do is suggest it, and he’d present himself, ass up and tongue hanging. He gets worse when his heat comes along. He claws at my door and begs for a breeding. We have to be separated because of my rut. Father’s afraid I’ll ruin him.”

“You’re compatible?” Edmure asked, surprised. The topic was taboo outside the family, but the scandal made the news more alluring. He and his friends used to listen to the stories of omegas presenting young and losing their virginities to their brothers and sisters. The son of the blacksmith used to brag about how tight his brother’s cunt was when he presented. He shared him with his father, and since then, the child was their personal fucktoy. From then on, he allowed every alpha to mount him as soon as he was in sight. It was well known that if an omega got deflowered by his own kin, they would become insatiable. Tiny bundles of heat and honey that were willing to get fucked by anything with a cock.” Though it was improper to do so, Edmure was inebriated enough to continue the conversation. 

“We are,” Robb said proudly. “When it first happened, I could tell when he was coming. We sleep in the same bed, but that time, he got so _needy_. He grinded against the sheets, and when he needed _more_ , he humped my leg like a dog. He smelled so good. I knew he was ready to take it, but my father stopped me.” Robb’s tone became bitter. “He made Maester Luwin keep track of Jon’s heats from that point on.”

“Fuck,” Edmure muttered. He was on his third cup of ale. “Can’t believe you had an omega in heat and didn’t even get to taste him.” The fact that Jon was Robb’s half-brother wasn’t processing. All he heard was a story about an alpha being denied what he deserved.  He palmed his cock and wondered which bitch he should use to alleviate him. He decided on the closest one and grabbed the boy from earlier. The omega demanded his payment upfront. Edmure practically threw his coin at him.  

“Do you mind?” Edmure groaned out. His cock was straining against his pants, and he needed to knot someone before he exploded.

Robb shook his head. “Enjoy.”

The omega got on his knees and pulled out the cock from his trousers. He swallowed him down until the lord’s balls were pushed against his cheeks.

“Take it bitch,” Edmure commanded. He tried to focus on Robb. “Are you sure you don’t want to have a taste?”

“I’m sure.”

“You’re still young.” Edmure jerked further down the boy’s throat. He was unaffected. Edmure could have stuck a corn cob beside his dick, and it wouldn’t have made the boy flinch. Robb wondered if he could ask the young man for his secrets. That way, Jon could learn how to sleep with Robb’s knot in his mouth.

“That’s a shame,” Edmure guttered out as he thrust more wildly. He gripped onto the boy’s hair for better control. “I heard a few of the whores on the north side are having heats. There’s nothing better than fucking an omega in heat.”

For once, Robb was intrigued. He bit back a moan of displeasure. “I heard that, too.” He finished his ale then but refused a refill. “I’ve always wanted to fuck him in heat. There’s nothing better than an omega reduced to an animal, where all he thinks about is getting pumped full of cum. I heard they get all slicked up and spongey because the ruts are so rough and they want to be prepared for whatever cock they get. Is it true that their cunts suck in the knots instead of just stretching around them?”

Edmure flushed. He remembered his first omega in heat. He paid a pretty penny for her, but she was worth it. She would push back into the cock and tried to get him to cum as deep as possible. He got to knot her mouth, ass, and cunt, before sharing her with a few other alphas. Seeing an omega take two knots was spectacular.

The memory of the whore made him close. He was so enraptured with his purchase mouth that he remained unaware of Robb’s final words.

“I’ll find out soon enough. My father cannot keep me away from him forever.”

***

Until darkness rose, Edmure continued to drink himself to death. Robb, in contrast, took his sips with leisure. His drunkenness prevented him from continuing his plans. They returned to Riverrun without stopping by the brothel. Edmure could see Robb’s sobriety settling in. Unlike Edmure, his temperance would save him from a terrible scolding.

Clever brat, Edmure thought, still shaken from the gallons of ale.

When they arrived at the castle, Robb announced he was going to bed. Meanwhile, Edmure attempted to sneak into his room but was caught by the two people he hoped to avoid. His sister and father were waiting, having a spot of tea and cakes. She was disapproving as ever of his brother’s proclivities and swatted him upside the head for dragging her son along his wicked shenanigans.

“Ow!” Edmure rubbed the back of his head. “That’s not fair! He didn’t even accept the boy I tried to buy for him!”

Catelyn struck him again with more force.  

“My son has a reputation to maintain. Yours has longed been sullied. What would happen if someone saw him dallying with whores?”

Lord Tully laughed. “Don’t be so hard on him, Cat. They are alphas.”

Catelyn did not listen. She crossed her arms and addressed her brother’s carelessness. “You could have taken him anywhere, but instead you choose a brothel? What should I expect next, a poppy den and a gambling room?”

Edmure rolled his eyes at his sister’s dramatism. “You told me he was a stick in the mud, so I sought to rectify that.” The liquor was making his head pound.

“I said no such thing!”  

Edmure rolled his eyes. “Your letters clearly stated that Robb was uninterested in immoral exploits. That if he was not playing his father’s squire, he was buried in a book or training with his comrades. Sounds like a child in need.”

“That was not a concern. It was a point of praise.”  

The belief was pitiful. His sister was an omega; she did not recognize that Robb’s behavior was the symptom of a much darker issue. The child was _dull_. There was no passion in his soul or fire in his loins. Edmure suspected impotence or an inclination towards the _unnatural_. The sole grace of Robb’s soften cock was that any other hot-blooded alpha would have fucked his brother by now. There was no way a pretty omega, a bastard no less, could have a heat and _not_ get fucked. Robb was too good to take advantage of his given right, and it was a waste of tight cunt.

“You need not worry, dear sister,” Edmure said with a sigh. “The boy has no taste for wenching.” He shook his head in regret. “’Tis is a shame. There are plenty of omegas who would have parted their legs for him at no cost. He could be bedding half the country if he opened his eyes.”  

Catelyn was aware of the fact. She avoided revealing the truth behind Robb’s chastity. “Tomorrow, we will go swimming in the lakes as a family. Try to be on your best behavior.”

Edmure agreed, grateful for the conversation to end. He could get to the bottom of Robb’s proclivities later. His plans may have failed tonight, but there must have been a way to slacken Robb’s toiled demeanor.

***

When Robb came to his bedroom, he was greeted by an uninvited guest. Arya’s presence was gravely unappreciated despite his morning’s attempt at reconciliation. Without the crowd verifying his efforts, his little sister was no better than a strenuous annoyance. All he wanted was to get balls deep inside Jon and sleep. The former was not a possibility, but the latter was—once the middle Stark was removed from the premises.

“What are you doing here, Arya?”

“I bet you asked him to hurt you,” his youngest sister stated. 

The accusation tasted like honey on her lips and salt on Robb’s ears. Robb narrowed his eyes at her. "The matter is done, Arya. If you wish for a fight, wait until we leave Riverrun. A confrontation now will only endanger our grandfather’s health.”

Arya glared at him. “You’re not fooling anyone." 

Robb took off his coat and jerkin before tossing it on the bed. The ‘thud’ of the fabric made Arya jump, revealing that her confidence was a show and she was still a child. She had no business confronting her brother in such a distasteful manner.

“You are acting like a child, Arya.” Robb told her, not a pitch out of place. “A jealous one. It’s making you imagine injustices.”

“I am not!”

Robb got ready for bed. “Go to sleep. I will deal with you after we leave.”

“He wouldn’t love you as much if you didn’t make him.”

 Robb stilled. With a clenched jaw and balled fist, he turned to face her. 

“Everyone knows Jon didn’t get a proposal because of you. You keep him all to yourself, but you’re afraid that Jon will love someone else and leave you. That’s why we’re not allowed to spend time with him anymore. Because if he were allowed to, he’d love me more and you can’t handle that.”

Anyone else would have been dead for making such a declaration. It was Arya’s omega scent that saved her; her smug words were a challenge, and as an alpha, Robb had every right to discipline her whether she was an adult or not. Robb unleashed a wave of pressure into the air, and the atmosphere dropped to a nothingness reminiscent of death. Arya shivered and shook; his rage suffocated her.

Robb’s face betrayed nothing, not even when he sat beside her. “We’ve never been close, have we, Arya?”

Arya coughed.

“I asked you a question.”

An alpha’s orders must be followed. “No,” she choked out. 

“Alphas and omegas are more likely to have compatibility if they are of opposing sexes. That’s why alpha boys are not encouraged to bond with their omega sisters. It’s one of the many reasons why I was unable to spend time with you or Sansa.” Robb chuckled. “Of course, our age and our responsibilities played a more significant role in that matter. I was the heir. Sansa was the oldest omega so she had to married first. And you, you needed a lot of help to become a lady. We all had our paths and we all had our interests. Sometimes, those interest overlapped but not in the way that brought us closer.” He smiled. Arya knew he was talking about Jon. He did not mention their brother, but both were aware of the rivalry planted when he arrived. The Stark children loved thier half-brother. In return for their affection, he drove them mad with desire. Howland Reed made sure to nurture that worship. They came to him for all their needs; affection and joy, love and deovotion. He was their brother, but he was also _theirs_.

"Do you know who I'm talking about?"

Arya coughed and nodded.  She regretted provoking Robb the way she did. She was immobile, and only an alpha’s order would release her binds. She could have cried at her foolishness, but even her tears were not her own; she never felt anything so horrid. Bile was churning and rising to her throat.

Father never used his status on her, no matter what she did. He thought it was immoral to do so. She was aware that alpha orders weren’t invincible and had any other alpha given her command, the taming would have been laughable, no more than a mouse’s cry. But orders from a sire were almost impossible to disobey, and Robb was close enough to their father that his effect was nearly identical. 

“Allow me to offer you my guidance on the matter, as a brother should.” He kissed her on the top of her head, and the affection was sickening—a poor imitation of their father’s warmth. “Jon is mine. He was born for me. If it was possible for him to love another, I would scourge the earth until the two of us are the last people on earth.” He let go of Arya. She dashed away but was held back by the firm grip around her wrist. “And I’d bury you screaming before I let you take him from me.”  

Robb let go of her. 

When she escaped, Arya ran past her bedroom and into Sansa’s arms. Her older sister was about to scold her for being out so late and interrupting her sleep. She stopped at the beginning of her lecture when she felt the tears against her chest. Arya was terrified; mute and shaking. Sansa decided to lift up her covers and wrap her youngest sister in them. When she asked what happened, Arya was too frightened to explain. Instead, she told Sansa that Robb was scary.

“I never want to marry an alpha. They’re horrible,” she cried. “I want an omega, like Jon!”  

Sansa stroked her hair. She did not tell Arya that such a dream was impossible, despite propriety egging her to educate her sister. Her omega instincts won over her mind. It consumed her with a desire to comfort. She told her sister to get some sleep and that she would stay awake until she did. When Arya clung onto her tighter, Sansa sang her to sleep. 

***

Robb’s scar was throbbing after he left. His conversation with Arya reminded him that his bed was empty tonight. The drive to expunge him from the pain made his heart pound and pushed sanity to the edge. He was restless and anxious. He wanted to scream and punch and breed at the same time. Robb grabbed a vial of oil from his bag and slathered it over his hands. He gripped his cock and imagined he was fucking into Jon’s wet hole.

The sensation wasn’t half as good as Jon but he made do with the fantasy. He could picture the redness in Jon’s cheeks as he begged for a proper dicking.  

_“_ _Please, Robb. Knot me. Fuck me harder. I want you to breed me. Just stuff my cunt until I’m filled with pups. Please, please, please.”_

There was a filthy squelch that accompanied each stroke of his cock. Robb growled lowly and started pumping himself faster. He thought about how Jon’s hole fluttered around his knot,  squeezing him from the inside. The image had the warmth inside him grow. Robb could feel his knot building up.

No matter the role he played, Robb was an alpha and alpha’s instinct was to breed. Jon’s practicality only appealed to the nature of man, but the alpha in him wanted to explore his primal soul.

The hardest thing to resist was how easy it was to have him. Jon was willing; even at his most reluctant, all it took was few commands and a firm hand to get him stretched out and wailing. There were plenty of ways to impregnate his brother without their father ever discovering the identity of the sire. He could convince his little brother to meet him in the godswood when everyone was asleep. He could put on a show for their father. Gag Jon so no one would hear him scream and fuck him raw. When he finished, Robb would return to his bedroom and pretend to have slept while his little brother was getting raped. Jon would be found with Robb’s thick cum gushing out of both his holes, dripping down to his feet.

Jon would be ruined. He’d have no choice but to remain in Winterfell and under the protection his older brother. But neither Robb nor their father could always be there to watch over him. Chances are, Jon would get raped again. Pregnant omegas were the horniest, and nursing omegas were known for cock warming.  Year after year, Jon would be filled with Robb's pups.

Robb longed for the savagery. He came all over his hand and sunk boneless onto his sheets. His eyelids dropped, and when he slept, he fantasized about Jon’s wrecked womb. The sweetest part was that their father would never know he was the culprit. 

***

North of Riverrun, within a castle of high stone walls and an inner sanctum built upon the beams of dark oak, Howland sat in a room with no windows and a dining table with nine chairs. As an honored guest, Howland was given a seat beside the current lord. The food was set, and stomachs rumbled, but none of the seven children were eating.

When the doors slammed open, Howland heard the eldest son thanked the gods. He watched as a familiar face come to light, and a small, cloaked figure walked beside him. He closed the doors and checked the curtains and the corners to see if there were any uninvited guests.

The only girl spoke. “We checked before dinner, father. There is no one here but us. Please, sit down and eat.”

Lord Tytos Blackwood was weak against his daughter’s pleas. “Of course, Bethany. But one can never be too sure."

Tytos marched towards his rightful position at the head of the table, and his shadow followed. Howland stood up to greet him. “Thank you for allowing me to join you. I was told that such an intrusion was unheard of.”

“Few have the right to do so,” Tytos informed. He smiled gravely. “Pardon our eccentricities. We do not eat until all the members of the family are seated.” He sent an affectionate glance at his companion. "I did not mean to take so long." 

Howland followed his gaze. He smiled and moved over to hug the shrouded being. “I have missed you.”

Lord Tytos Blackwood’s wife was legendary for being unknown. If not for the enchanting green eyes that his children all shared, many would have assumed them to be bastards made legitimate through the wily ways of the Blackwood. The Bracken family often said as such to discredit them. For the sake of a political ally and a dear friend, Lord Howland Reed put a stop to the defamation. He confirmed, decades ago, that Lord Blackwood married into the obscure Blackmyre family of the Neck. The official statement was that his wife was ill and kept inside the castle for his health. More rumors were sprouted from that lie but nothing the Blackwood House could not handle.

The truth was not as simple. The companion removed his cloak and revealed a man with nut-brown skin, freckled with snow-colored spots. He had large ears and green eyes the size of a doe’s. His hair was thick and rich as the moss of the Neck and Howland longed to run his fingers through it. He could not be confined by human measures of beauty but the sight of him made Howland nostalgic. If it weren’t for the number of fingers on his hand, Howland would have thought him inhuman.  

“I have as well,” Lyre Blackwood confessed, a musical quality to his tone. They kissed on the lips; a friendly gesture that surprised his children. Howland returned to his seat. While the Lord of the Neck sat at a respectable distance from Lord Blackwood, his wife’s place was to serve. He gathered food on their shared plate before returning to his lap where he took in great joy feeding his husband. Lyre’s submission astounded Howland for as much as Lord Blackwood’s children proved indifferent. Howland removed his surprise with rationality and enjoyed his meal as a rare guest. The food was delicious, and his hosts were lovely. He answered all the questions the children had about the Neck and made a similar invitation for them to join him. Howland provided a distraction for their parents who were engrossed with each other.

More than anyone, Howland understood the reasoning behind the Blackwood’s secrecy. The union between one of those who sing the song of earth and man usually produced children like Howland or Jyana. They looked _human_ ; for the seed of man was strong. But for every flower that bloomed red, there was another that was white. Lyre’s appearance was unearthly. The clandestine nature of his identity was paramount in keeping the secrets of the Neck. When he chose to marry Lord Blackwood, those secrets came into jeopardy. Lord Howland’s father agreed to allow the union under the condition that he’d never be seen beyond the eyes of blood and water. The other option was less reasonable.

Before Howland could concern himself with the memory, he noticed that his hosts have forgotten about him. When they finished licking off each other’s fingers, their tongues found a way into each other’s mouths. He watched Tytos shoved their plate to the ground to make room for their bodies on the table. Their children flushed, not from surprise but out of humiliation. They never thought their parents would be so shameless in front of a guest.

“You do not have to watch,” suggested Lucas, the second oldest. “We could have the pudding in the parlor.”

Howland laughed. “How green do you think I am, boy?”

Lucas blushed and resumed his meal. Bethany and the younger boys giggled. Howland shook his head and continued eating. He did not blame Tytos for his bold claim nor was he a stranger to acts of the flesh. One of the joys of marriage was the permission to showcase one’s omega without shame; to receive the envy of men whose wives honored decency over debauchery. Lord Tytos would never receive that opportunity while those who sing the song of earth remained in hiding.

The man dreamed of violating his wife on the steps of Stone Hedge. He longed for the look on rival’s face while he fathered another child with his fertile wife. On the occasion where they are both obliged to attend, he often bragged about how much he longed for another daughter but kept siring sons. Lord Jonos Bracken always got riled up—the man had only omega daughters and a bastard Tytos suspected to be a cuckold.

Howland sipped his water while Lyre gasped for his husband to fuck him. The crannogman were nothing if not dedicated lovers. Lord Blackwood’s cock was long and thin like the man himself. When Tytos pushed his cock inside, it looked obscene because of their differences in size. He could see an obvious indention pressing against Lyre’s stomach.

Tytos picked up his rhythm. He’d been fucking his wife for years; the man carried seven of his children. He knew better than anyone what his spouse was capable of. Lyre was moaned underneath Tytos’ palms. His got pounded mercilessly, and Tytos was holding him down as he snapped his hips faster. Howland was fascinated by how brutal he was going. From a distance, it almost looked like Tytos was fucking a child. Lyre was _tiny_ ; he was smaller than Howland despite being five years his senior. Howland watched Lord Blackwood’s dick become blurry from the speed. He could hear Lyre’s slick dripping all over the floor. Tytos stuffed his fingers alongside his cock, forcing a shriek out of his wife’s mouth. He took out his fingers and licked them off.

Howland took a deep breath. The slick smelled delicious even to an omega like himself—it reminded him fresh rain—and it made him delirious. The children were unaffected. They did make a groan, however, when Tytos ejected his cock from their mother’s body and grabbed his wine glass. After two strokes, he was spilling inside.

Howland could not hide his interest as Tytos pried open his wife’s mouth and poured the cum cocktail down his throat. When they were done, Lyre was covered in fluids. Tytos announced that he would be finishing dinner in his room. He asked Howland to join them in the bedroom. His two eldest sons were to follow.

Howland chuckled which contrasted their children’s reluctance. They walked quickly. Though Lyre was hidden by his cloak, his thighs were still dripping. When they got to the bedroom, his husband carried him to the bed and devoured his cunt.

“Tytos!”

“Father, please.” Brynden shook his head in disapproval. “Have some decency for our guest.” Howland noted that the young man was not disgusted but displeased. He was afraid of insulting Howland. Howland's lips twitched. He could not believe some people still cared for his honor. 

Tytos removed his mouth to answer. “He is the Lord of the Neck. You cannot tell me he has never seen an omega debauched.”

“Rarely by his husband,” Howland teased. “We tend to rely on the kindness of strangers.”

Tytos’ tongue pumped in and out of his wife’s drenched cunt, and his lips slurped up as much honey as it could. He licked Lyre’s plush, silky walls and enjoyed his dessert despite the discomfort of his sons. “Tell me what you’re here for, Howland. I doubt you travel to the South for fun.”

“I used to,” Howland pointed out. "When I was young, the mysteries of the southron were infinite." 

“Look how that turned out for you.”

Howland smiled despite the insult. “You have a wicked tongue, Lord Blackwood.”

Lyre laughed and moaned at the same time. He squeezed his husband’s head between his thighs. “Howland, once my lord is done with me, I will be unable to think. Please, hurry.”

Howland smiled. He glanced over at the two boys. “Do you trust them?”

Lyre gasped. “My own children?” Tytos flicked his tongue against his clit, and he wailed. Then, he answered, “Yes, yes, yes. I do.”

“Good.” Howland sat down at the table close to their bed. “I want to discuss a proposition with you, not only as your fellow lord but as friends of the Starks and believers of the old gods.”

“Interesting,” Tytos stated. He removed his mouth much to the displeasure of his wife. The crannogman thrust his hips upward, but instead of indulging, Tytos grabbed Lyre’s hair and forced his mouth against his suffering cock. Howland watched as his friend was forced to hump the bed for friction. “What do you propose?”

“An alliance,” Howland declared, “To bring a crown to my beloved lands and offer you the power to bring your love to light.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck, this chapter was hard to write. Crown the Wolf is one of my favorite stories and this time, I was going crazy trying to get over my writer’s block. I’m sorry for being two days late. Please forgive me. And for what is about to happen next at the end.  
> Also, as you could tell, I took advantage of the fact that Lord Blackwood’s wife was unknown. Add in the fact that the man was a believer in the old gods and a staunch Stark loyalists made him a perfect southern ally. Now onto the hiatus alert!
> 
> HIATUS ALERT
> 
> Ah, yes. Another one. I will be going on hiatus from May 14th until June 11th. I’ll post a schedule the next time I update (which will be the day before my hiatus). You will receive one more chapter before I take a break.  
> It’ll only be for a month (I’m going on vacation for two weeks and then I need another two weeks to write, schedule when to write, outline what to write, and try to adjust my work schedule to my writing schedule and prepare for school—because writing is a risky career and as a realist, I like to prepare for failure while praying for success.)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings…hmm…minor threesome (AOOO) and sort of bestiality at the end? There’s a lot of blood in the end, too, but it’s just blood. It’s not kinky.

When Jon was a child, he used to anticipate the community baths. He and the other children would group together behind a rock to admire the bloomed omegas cleansing off their glutinous bottoms and swollen breasts, playing with cocklets or fingering themselves as they talked about their latest exploits. Some would engage in more indulgent activities with each other or with one of the rare alphas residing in the Neck. Others used the bathing time to catch up on gossip, conversating about adult topics like trades and battles and children. Jon longed to grow up and be one of them.

It was not until Jon reached the springs that he realized his childhood—his treasured spot of espionage was overtaken by a new generation of crannogmen. They giggled as he was stripped down to nothing. Jon was the object of envy, and it was a good feeling. So much had changed since he left and the simple acknowledgment of his adulthood made his body burn. He could not believe how strange normality was to him; of how geography could turn him from "just another omega" to the bastard of the North.

 His friends took advantage of his awe to fondle his assets.

“Ah!” Jon yelped when a pair of hands came out from behind him to pinch his nipples. When he saw the assailant, he shouted, “Kyle!”

The mischievous crannogman giggled. Kyle Boggs was one of Jon’s childhood companions and as an adult grew even more enthralling with his long lashes and ginger locks. More laughter filled the area as Jon’s friends jumped into the water, tussling and splashing each other with joy.

Kyle dragged Jon away from the shallow pools so that they could swim with their dust. There was no trench in the Neck deeper than the size of two crannogmen, but for their small statures, that might as well have been an ocean. Underneath him, someone pulled Jon’s legs under. He tried to fight off his assailant but the stranger let him go before Jon could manage a hit. When he resurfaced, Jon was completely drenched. After shaking his head of the excess water, he saw the other omegas laughing at him.

Jon pouted at them. “You are so cruel!” he accused, splashing in their direction.

Kyle captured him in his arms. The Boggs omega leaned in and kissed Jon, poking his tongue inside so that he could taste him. Jon’s instinct was to fight off any touch that was not Robb. He stopped by reminding himself that the gesture was nothing more than a greeting between friends. Kissing was standard in the Neck.

His home, Jon reminded himself. He was a crannogman, too.  

The Snow child was pulled out of his thoughts when his underwater attacker pounced on his backside.

“Have you’ve forgotten me, Snow?”

“Lonnel!" Jon shrieked. "Not you, too!”

The Fenn boy laughed. “You have no tits, but an ass as soft as clouds. Alphas must spend hours eating your hole for dessert.” Lonnel squeezed Jon's mounds. Jon could feel two thumbs spread his butt cheeks apart, letting the water slip inside him. Jon’s moans became louder than the laughter. His friend's cocklet pressed against the curve of his ass and his lips sucked on Jon's ear. Jon felt lightheaded. 

“Lonnel, you must stop…”

“You are so lewd,” Lonnel teased. “Your hole has become loose since we last saw you. How many cocks have you taken into this cute, little hole? Ten? Twenty?”

“He should have bedded the entire North by now,” murmured a Boggs girl, a cousin of Kyle’s. “That’s what I would do if I ever leave these plains. I wouldn’t go a day without an alpha.”

“They have houses there,” whispered a Quagg boy. “Where alphas give coin to omegas for bedding them. Can you imagine, being rewarded for receiving rewards? They rut inside omegas, stuffing their mouths and cunts, not even waiting for their turn before adding another cock inside them. Have you ever spread your legs at those houses, Jon? Don’t lie; I bet you have.”

Jon whimpered; he shook his head. “No,” he whispered with a face as red as an apple. “I don’t want to.” He panted, his cheeks flushed, and his mouth shaped like an ‘O,' the common expression of a fucked out whore.

The thought of confessing aroused him. If there was anybody he could trust with the affair, it was the crannogmen. They were the secret keepers of gods and monsters. He knew they wouldn’t betray him; what were the harms of revealing his transgressions here? With every sinful caress by his brethren, his reason wavered, and his selfishness prevailed. Jon was not at Winterfell. The Neck was a haven where he could be applauded for his accomplishments, not reviled for his sins.

Kyle flicked his cock and Jon’s self-control left as he came into the water.

“One,” he breathed out. The water was boiling. “I’ve only had one alpha.”

“One?” Gasps spread throughout their party. “You are lying,” said the Quagg, aghast by the notion.

Jon stared at his accuser with half-lidded eyes. “I have no reason to lie,” he challenged. Sex was not deemed immoral within the lands that move. More hushed whispers were made in light of the scandal. “I love him; so I’ve offered him my fidelity in heart and body. He is mine, and I am his.”

“He must reside in Winterfell, then,” Lonnel observed, ever the insightful one. “To have the time to foster your affection. Who is he?”

Jon bit his lip before swimming circles around his neighbors. “It is a secret.”

“Is it one of the guards your father assigned to watch over you?” Kyle asked. “Perhaps the one with the broad shoulders and long hair?"

"Jory?"

Kyle nodded. "My mother has bedded him before. She says he has a fat cock that is quite filling. Please share if that is the case. I want to taste him for myself.”

Jon laughed. “If that were true, he would not be my lover. I will not tolerate unfaithfulness.” He kissed his friend’s lips. “Only my honey may touch my lover's lips.”

“That eliminates the giant,” quips the Quagg.

The crannogman erupt into giggles. Jon joined them, knowing exactly who they are referring to. Lonnel laughed the hardest and reminded them that they must seek the answers within the walls of Winterfell.

“I have a theory,” Lonnel hummed. “One that would explain the secrecy.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Shall I confirm or will you remain smug about your errors?”

Lonnel swam towards him. "Tell me, Jon." He wrapped his arms around Jon’s neck and tangled his fingers into his curls to keep him from escaping. “How many times has your brother use that deceitful mouth of yours?”

As soon as Lonnel asked, Jon sputtered out his shock, resulting in howls and jeers from the entire group. His whole body turned red with embarrassment. The crowd crannogmen swarmed around him like sharks in the water, begging for details of their bedtime trysts and their naughty adventures around the castle.

“Oh, you fiendish slut!” Kyle hailed with high spirits. “To seduce your brother and gain the guaranteed pleasures of an instant fuck. Your cunt must be ruined. I bet your insides are softer than jam.” Kyle reached down to finger Jon’s cunt. Jon’s mortification had him retreating to the nearest exit. His efforts were in vein as the Bogg girl trapped his waist between her arms. 

“I hear he is the most handsome alpha in the North. What is his name again?”

“Robb,” murmured Jon, who nestled his head within her scruff. Her sources were correct. “The sun falters upon his brightness, and he calls me the fire that sparks his light.”   

The Boggs girl laughed and allowed his heated complexation to seek refuge in her snake pit. She patted him on the back as a small comfort. “You are smitten. Tell me, how does his cock measure up to his face?”

Jon blushed. They were waiting for him to answer; their eyes dissected his back for untold stories of filth. Their admiration curled his toes. With a heavy breath, he told them that “Robb’s cock is gorgeous.”

The omegas shrilled in excitement. They urged Jon to continue, pulling on his arms so that his story could be shared amongst them.

Jon bravely allowed himself to be swayed. He returned to the center. With a bitten lip, he revealed his favorite details of his lover’s manhood. “Robb’s length is average for an alpha, but his cock is thick—as big as a weirwood branch.” Jon tried to mimic the size with his hands. The omegas gasped at the distance he displayed. “Whenever he’s inside me, I can barely move because I’m so stretched out. The veins of his cock rub against my walls and he pulses cum by the gallons." Jon licked his lips. "When I walk, his cum drips out of me because I am so open.”

The Boggs girl sighed dreamily. “How did it feel the first time you were together?”

Jon sighed, remembering their first time on the throne. “Wonderful,” he whispered. “Like we were becoming one.”

“Where have you fucked?” asked an older boy.

Jon smiled as bright as his cherry cheeks. “Everywhere we could,” he bragged. “We’ve done it in the rooms of Winterfell, in the woods, in the hot springs.” Jon caught his breath; his honey was clotting between his thighs. The water became thick with desire. “I let him do things to me.”

“What kind of things?”

“Dirty things,” he confessed. “I let him tie up my hands and legs so that I can’t move. Sometimes, he puts stuff inside me. Not just tools, but fruits and custards. One time, he made me go through swords training with my insides churning honey and milk. When I was finished, he spent hours eating me out.”

“Wow…” Kyle awed. Jon was so experienced. He fingered his ass while pressing Jon for more details. “What if you get caught? Won’t your papa be angry with you?”

Jon blushed. It had been years since called his father ‘papa’ and the word made their gossip sound more scandalous. “He would be. So we have to be careful not to get caught.” Not that Robb cares; the thought of Robb’s insensitivities inclined Jon to discuss the issue. “Robb doesn’t listen to me. He takes me whenever he wants.”

“What if you say no?” Lonnel pushed. “Does he punish you?” The Fenn smacked his friend’s bottom. Jon yelped. His cock twitched. “Does he bend you over and fuck you anyways?”

“Yes,” Jon choked out. “He keeps fucking me until I want it. Then he fucks me harder for denying him in the first place.”

"You were always so cautious," sighed Kyle. "I bet you say 'no' a lot so he can teach you a lesson. You can't say no to your alpha." 

Jon bit his lip. "Maybe," he conceded, looking around to check for Robb's wandering ear. It was a silly thing to worry about, but the thought of Robb listening to his dirty confessions made him stick a finger inside his pussy. 

“Will we ever meet him?” The Quagg asked eagerly.

“One day,” Jon promised before having a vital thought. “But you can’t have a taste! He’s mine!”

“Selfish,” Kyle muttered. “Your mother doesn’t share either.”

“That’s because your loose cunt does not tempt Lord Benjen,” Lonnel quipped.

Kyle flicked water in his face. “And you are so taut? You have taken the Umber’s cock like the peaches sang for it.”

Lonnel flushed. Jon laughed at the pinkness of his friend’s cheek. He kissed him to show his support. “Don’t be cruel; it can’t be helped that Lonnel is more skilled to take on the Umber. It’s in his blood. In due time, you too will be accomplished enough to handle such a beast.” The comment sparked their competitive nature. Lonnel sent Jon a grateful look. Within seconds, all of the crannogmen launched into their own dirty tales, of the alphas they’ve bedded and the swords they’ve swallowed. Jon absorbed their unsolicited advice; some tidbits even intrigued him. He longed to test out the suggestion of being fucked in his sire’s bed or being stripped naked while Robb licked the delicacies off his body.

An enormous wave swept over him and his friends, interrupting their candor. They shrieked and turned to see the cause of the upsurge. Smalljon Umber was being dragged into the springs by the twins, Robar and Mara Fenn, Lonnel’s cousins. Jon sunk into the water to cover up his form while the others drew closer to the scene.

Kyle stayed behind to remark on Jon’s inhibition. “What is the matter? Do you have grief with the giant?”

Jon shook his head, making ripples in the water. “He is an alpha, and I am bare.”

“I do not see the problem.”

 “Outside the Neck, it is considered immoral for omegas to be seen by alphas outside their blood.”

“You had no problems earlier.” Kyle nodded over to a female alpha in her late twenties, fiddling with a group of omegas.

Jon sighed. “I do not want an outsider to see me undress. Especially one who can spread stories of my figure to other alphas. He is not trained to keep secrets as we are.”

The point was well-made. “Very well,” Kyle submitted. He pointed to a nearby rock where some of the other crannogman were already seated. Kyle agreed to swim there. “The giant will not see you and you, can still partake in the pleasure.”

Jon thought about his options. He decided against refusal—especially when it meant losing an opportunity to bond with his former comrades. He swam to the boulder and found a spot where he could watch Lonnel join the surfeit. 

Lonnel laughed when he reunited with his bedpartner. Smalljon captured him in what looked like a tongue fucking rather than a kiss. Jon trembled with desire. More than ever, he was glad he stayed for the indulgence.  

With Lonnel’s arrival, Smalljon was responsible for the needs of three omegas. He took his duty seriously. The springs were his bedroom and the water was his bed. He laid Mara Fenn on her back and she floated like a water lily, legs spread and a pair of tits unable to be covered by the ripples. Jon stared enviously. Female omegas were blessed with godly breasts—they were the subject of wicked games and erotic dreams. Rarely were male omegas so fortunate, with exceptions being Theon and his ample oranges. Jon was not surprised when Smalljon reached out and massaged one in his hands.

They looked so soft, Jon sighed, like giant pillows of cream. On her tiny body, Mara’s breasts looked like watermelons and coupled with her childlike features made her entire appearance obscene. Men like Smalljon appreciated the contrast. It made their fucking seem more forbidden.

Feeling neglected, Robar reached out to steal the giant from his cousin. He grabbed a bicep and squeezed, making it clear to Smalljon he needed more attention. Smalljon obliged.

Lonnel protested when Smalljon removed his lips and placed them on Robar. The younger twin eagerly took in Smalljon’s tongue. His enthusiasm contrasted his sister’s gentle submissiveness or his cousin’s careful seduction. Ever the fighter, Lonnel refused to lose to such low-brow provocation. Unlike Robar, Lonnel was training to become a skjaldmær; his physical strength was impressive for a crannogman, and he was a master of using weight and gravity to his advantage. Without saying a word, Lonnel hooked his leg around Smalljon’s hips and managed to lay him onto his back.

The impact of the Umber’s body resulted in a small tidal wave that had the younger children shrieking in delight. The kids were located on the opposite side of the springs from Jon; the Snow child could see Meera alongside them, staring wide-eyed and cheeky.

Their childish behavior made Jon nostalgic. Smalljon’s howl of laughter returned Jon’s attention to the scene before him.

Lonnel straddled Smalljon’s lap. “I get to have you first. Do you have any complaints?” Lonnel asked while rolling his hips.

Smalljon chuckled and shook his head. “No, as long there is no conflict.” He wouldn't mind having a three beautiful omegas fight over him, but he was reluctant to ruin an opportunity. The Fenn twins pouted but adhered to the verdict. They frolicked over to start kissing Smalljon. Lonnel lowered onto the Umber’s cock. He released a series of choked  sounds that got Smalljon harder. Lonnel screamed when he felt the increased stretch of his asshole.

“Big,” Lonnel guttered out. He tried to relax; this was not the first time he’d taken the Umber’s cock but there was something about doing it in the springs, deep inside their hidden lands, where everyone was watching, that kept him tense. He hoped that with his upcoming heat, he’d be looser. The only benefit it seemed, was the surplus honey he produced. Smalljon had no problem slipping in, but Lonnel’s sensitivity increased. His entire body into an erogenous zone.

“You feel so good,” Smalljon praised, thrusting upwards. Robar was clearly unhappy that Smalljon’s tongue was being used for matters outside of pleasuring him; he kissed the alpha to remind him of his place.

“This is ours until Lonny is finished with your cock,” Robar ordered. “I want to use your mouth.”

Smalljon was not one to listen to orders, even ones he enjoyed. Robar yelped when the large man used his left hand to grope his ass and his right to squeeze his sister’s tits.

“If you want my cock,” he growled out. “Then you wait until I put you to use.” He slapped Robar’s ass. Everyone gasped at the red handprint on his cheek. One girl came. The Umber was so rough; everyone was shaking, hoping that the Umber would direct his anger onto one of them.

Robar whimpered as Smalljon slapped him again. “Yes!” He gasped. “Anything you want!”  

Satisfied, Smalljon returned his attention to Lonnel. The crannogman tried to ride him, but Smalljon's shaft was lodged against his prostate and his tip was entering his womb. Every move made his mind go blank. After a few, testing bounces on his cock, Lonnel started working his way into a steady rhythm. Loud squelching noises and wanton moans became the only sound in the springs.  

The friction was not enough for the man-giant. Just as Smalljon was pulling out, he jolted all the way in, relishing in the way Lonnel clenched around him. Lonnel's cum splattered all over his chest. His body slumped down, but Smalljon refused to let Lonnel faint without bringing him to completion.

Smalljon closed his eyes and inhaled Lonnel’s slick dripping down his cock. “Fuck, you’re getting ripe. Going to breed this ass the way it deserves.”

Lonnel wailed when Smalljon grabbed his hips and began to move him up and down like a ragdoll. Each time he was pulled off the cock, the crannogmen could see the way Lonnel’s hole gaped. After a few more ruthless thrusts, Smalljon pushed all the way inside, creaming into Lonnel’s belly and making him swell by the sheer volume of cum.

Most of the crannogman followed suit. Jon gasped; he came down from his high and removed his sticky fingers from his cunt.

Smalljon removed Lonnel off his cock and pulled him up into a sloppy kiss. Boneless from pleasure, Lonnel went limp against his body. Mara was the one who rested him in the water. After she had finished caring for her cousin's comfort, she started licking Smalljon’s cockhead while massaging it between her tits. She was getting him clean and hard again for her and her brother.

Northern conventions on sex were severe and the south doubly so. Jon had long forgotten the appetites of those who devoured without consequence.

“What is he still doing here? I thought the Northern party left last night.” Jon asked, pretending that reason was still his friend and not a passing acquaintance.

“They were,” Kyle answered, out of breath himself. “But the Fenns’ heats are coming up. They’ve asked the Umber to help them through it and he agreed.”

Envy coursed through his veins. Jon dreamed of spending a heat with Robb. Unfortunately for him, Maester Luwin kept a watchful eye on his student’s moons and made no room for error. Jon and Robb had plans for a “mistake” that never had the opportunity to be made.

“What if they’re not compatible?” His jealousy was seething. The others did not acknowledge his bite, far too focused on Mara’s shrieks of pleasure.

“The Fenns’ heats are synchronized to each other. As long as the Umber is matched with one of them, the others will not be disappointed.” Kyle smiled thoughtfully. “They have the makings of betrothal. The heat will be a good chance for the Umber to narrow down his options.”

Jon pursed his lips. They were allowed to be brazen, Jon thought. They weren’t siblings like he and Robb were.

Tired of coveting his friend’s fortune, Jon got out of the water. While he got dressed, Cley Fenn, the mother of Mara and Robar Fenn, joined him on dry land. “Have you enjoy your swim?”

Jon nodded. “I have; it was nice to be surrounded by my people again.”

Cley smiled demurely. The expression reminded Jon of his sister and her natural pleasantness. “I am sure that must be the case. Outside customs can be quite rigid.”

“Have you ever traveled outside the Neck?” Jon asked.

“A few times. I sometimes join your mother on his political expenditures, but no place treasures me like the Neck.”

Jon looked away. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

“Will you stay long enough to speak to your mother?”

Jon shook his head. “I’m afraid I am only here for the week—until my brother’s party passes through.”

“Maybe Howland will still be at Winterfell when you return, or perhaps you’ll see him on the road.” 

“That is a hope of mine,” Jon admitted. “But thank you for making me feel like home, regardless of my mother’s presence. It is rare for me to be treated so well.”

Cley frowned. He reached over and stroked Jon’s cheek. “Are the people North cruel to you, Jon?”

Not always, he wanted to say. No, he should have muttered. “As long as I have my family, the cruelties are no more than dust in the wind. I am so grateful for my brother’s love.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Jon flushed a bright red.

The Fenn covered his mouth to dampen his laughter. He brushed Jon’s curls out of his face. “I cannot speak for your mother or father, but if my son or daughter were in the position you are in, I would ask them to choose their happiness over their soul.” Cley laughed. "Who knows what the gods have planned for us?" 

***

For the next few days, Jon returned to his routine before Winterfell. He cooked food alongside his brothers and sisters of the Neck, ate in the community crannogs, and stayed in a different bed each night. There were so many things he missed about his home. The way Meera hugged him every morning without fear or remorse. How Jojen could speak to him freely about the hauntings in his head. The way his people talked to him without a care for his line or lineage. Jon savored his acceptance as if he were in an indefinite, dreamlike state.

When it came to the training day, Benjen beseeched his nephew to help him teach the children about swords in case the crannogmen faced an enemy possessing the weapon.

“Unless you are desperate, you should never pick up a weapon you don't know how to use. This is how people get hurt.” Jon remembered Ser Rodrick telling him gruesome tales of the stupid squires trying to best bandits with a recovered sword or the downtrodden maiden slicing herself open on her attacker’s rapier. “I’ll teach you the basics in case you are missing spears or knives and are forced to take your enemy’s sword.”

Jon asked for a volunteer. He was proud when Meera jumped at the chance. She took her wooden sword. Given that this was practice, Jon made the first move. Crannogmen were taught to never hit first unless attacking in a group.

Meera was quick to dodge her first attack, but her grasp on her sword was weak. Jon was able to dismantle her hold in a second. He paused and taught her a bitter grip. “Remember, because of your lack of experience; you are better off disabling your enemy. Hit the legs.” Jon tapped the back of her calf. “That way, there will be time for us to come to your aid you or they’ll simply stumble onto one of our less stable grounds. Start again.”

The second time around, Meera was faster on her feet. She dodged most of Jon’s attacks, and the places he hit were not vital. His little sister managed to “scratch” his cheek with her sword, leading to Jon stabbing her sides and kicking her sword out of her hand. Before she could grab it, he took hold of her wrist and twisted it behind her back.

“Better,” Jon compliment. He kissed the top of her curly brown hair. “But I told you—stop aiming for my top half. You are small; it’ll only strain your muscles to aspire for height.”

“Not that small,” Meera murmured. She elbowed Jon in the ribs and pushed him backward enough to grab her sword. Before Jon could react, Meera held him at sword point.

Jon was surprised. His chest swelled up in pride and disappointment. Pride, for she surpassed his expectations. Disappointment, for he missed her gradual climb of skill.

“You’ve become quite impressive.”

Meera grinned. “I am the same age you were when you left. Father says I am better than you were at fighting.”

Jon blinked. Once the truth hit him, he finally acknowledged that Meera was not small. For an alpha, she was of the minute size, but she was taller than he was at her age. Alphas entered their ruts later than omegas, but who was to say she would not mimic Jon’s early blossoming? The thought of his sister’s fleeting childhood was sobering. The fact that he missed so much of it hurt. He glanced over to Benjen who waited for his next move.

In Winterfell, the underhanded tactics employed by the crannogman resulted in jeers and disgust. This was not Winterfell, Jon told himself, and he was a crannogman, through and through.

Jon dropped his sword. “You have bested me, Meera.” He told her with a sweet smile. “But surely you understand that uncle was kind. He is your sire, after all. His legacy depends on you so he must be quick to praise.”

Meera furrowed his brow. “I have beaten you. I am better,” she said, with the sword still pointed at his Neck. 

Lovely, cautious girl.

“True,” Jon admitted. “I am sure you will spread the news. To mother, when he comes back from Winterfell.” Jon took a step closer. “To our brother, who speaks to the trees.” He looked away from Meera, bearing his neck; a common tactic that omegas employed to display submission. Meera was an alpha by instinct, no matter how many omegas raised her. “And, of course, to Lady Wylla. I’m sure she will be happy to hear from you.”

Meera’s face flushed with embarrassment. The audience rustled with soft chuckles. Using the distraction to his advantage, Jon swiped her legs  of the ground and had her falling off her feet.

The giggles evolved to full blown laughter. Even Benjen cracked a smile.   

“Jon!” She yelled. “That was cheating!”

“We are crannogmen,” Jon spoke, the words slipping off his tongue. “We are bog devils and mud men. We are not honest people. Remember what mother told us?”

Meera rolled her eyes. “Honest people die young.”

“What else?”

Meera sighed, she punched the dirt in disappointment. “A battle is not won with a wound and no enemy is done unless dead.”

Jon chuckled. He offered his hand, and before she could drag him down, he lifted her up with an impressive show of strength.

“Nice try,” he told her, much to her displeasure. He pointed to her seat. “Sit. Who will be next?”

All the hands were raised.

***

When all the children were due for a bath, Meera was nowhere to be found. Sensing an issue, Jon hopped from crannog to crannog to seek out his sister. When he found her, Jon joined Meera near a nest of turtle eggs and a number hatched ones.

“It is nice to see that after all these years; your oasis has not changed.”

Meera sighed as she picked up a baby turtle. It squirmed in her palm. “I’ve named this one Thyme. When he is grown, I will boil him a vat of thyme and onions so that I can eat his flesh while he is still tender and succulent.”

Jon nodded. He picked one up, squirming by his side. “What is his name?”

“She is Tomato. She will be simmered in tomato sauce and spices.”

Jon sat down next to her. He wrapped his hand around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Is there something wrong? I did not mean to embarrass you; I figured everyone knew about Wylla.” Keeping a secret in the Neck was impossible.

Meera shook her head. “Everyone knows; I speak about her all the time." Meera grinned sheepishly. "And, of course, several other omegas.” Jon raised an eyebrow. “I am one of the only alphas. I get an offer every week in preparation of my rut.”

Jon ruffled her head. “When did my little sister become so filthy?”

Meera's smile left as soon as it came. She hesitated before asking, “Do you love me, Jon?”

Jon gave her a bewildered look. “Of course I do. Why would you ask me that?”

Meera returned the turtle back to his family. “You have other sisters now. They’re omegas and delicate and need to be protected…unlike me. You live with them and not me. Sometimes, I wonder if you prefer their presences to mine.”

“Oh,” Jon was surprised by the thought. He immediately pulled Meera into a hug. “My sweet, sweet sister. I can’t believe you ever thought that.”

“I know it’s silly—”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “No, it is not. This is my fault; I don’t visit you often enough to prove my love.” He kissed her on her forehead and sighed, drinking in her mossy scent of oud and leather. Masculine and alpha with the freshness of femininity. He stared into her eyes.

“Meera, you are my sister, and I will never love you any more or any less than my other siblings.” He cradled her hand. “But I must confess that you are special.”

“Huh?” Meera’s ears latched onto the praise.

Jon chuckled. “You are my first little sibling; the first child I ever held in my arms. Before you, I…I never considered having a babe of my own.” He gingerly touched Meera’s cheek. “You were so small, barely the size of an apple flower. I cradled you in my arms every night and sang the songs mother taught me.” He could still remember Meera’s giggles as he blew raspberries onto her stomach. “No one can take that away from you, Meera, or me.”

Meera tightened her grip around him. “I don’t want you to go back,” Meera confessed. “I …I know you have to. I do.  Your father is Lord Stark and you must obey him. But I don’t want you to. And it hurts. It hurts when we eat together, when you train me and when we do the things that we used to do because I know it’s not going to last and it won’t happen again, not for a long time.” Meera pulled back to wipe away her tears. “I want us to be together again.”

Jon’s clenched his fist. He wanted to say something to alleviate Meera’s fears, but none of the lies sounded appealing. 

So he told her the truth.

“We will be together again," Jon promised. "All of us. You, me, Jojen. It will happen, soon." 

"How do you know?"

"I just do," Jon sighed. "The webs are spun and the flies are coming forth for our feasting. Meera.” Jon wiped away her tears. “The world will become ours and we'll get to shape it for the ones we love.”

Meera stared into Jon’s eyes. She paused and then nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

Oh, and more than ever, Jon remembered they were of the same blood. “Grow up, but not too fast,” Jon teased. Meera smiled alongside him. When they finished with their laugh, Jon cradled her hand. “We are all intertwined on this tapestry of fate. Yours is dyed in garish green and it weaves the ships that dance in our waters and the silver that strengthens our earth.”

“Earth and water, soil and stone,” Meera repeated.

“Yes,” Jon agreed. He gave her one last kiss. “Now, let’s go home. I want to show you a few techniques you can teach the other children. It’ll be good for you to learn before I leave.”

***

Jon’s moment with Meera made him wonder if he had been neglecting his younger brother. When everyone was asleep, the bastard child checked the mats for his honey-haired brother and was dismayed by his absence. He looked in several crannogs, careful to keep his steps light, to no success. He came to the conclusion that the disappearance was spiritual. The Snow child wandered around the swamps, led by the flame he conjured in his hand and the tracks of trees. Before long, they directed him to his desired location. Jon found their moving weirwood with Jojen’s bored expression as a greeting.

“Do you know when I sleep here, I sometimes dream of your parents’ wedding night?” He asked; the sickly innocence of his voice made his words all the more unnerving. “They loved each other. I think it was the happiest mother has ever been, even happier than when he had us.”

“I know.”

Jojen was a solemn child. He stared up at the canopy of leaves that blocked the night sky. “I dream of other things, too. Sometimes, if I close my eyes at the right moment, I can see you. And Bran. I like to see Bran. He prays often. I think he can sense when I am dreaming.”

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” Jon advised. “There are monsters in the water. Lizard-lions and swamp creatures that crave the flesh of little boys.”

Jojen chuckled; the sound was odd from a nine-year-old. Jon walked over to him and pulled him into his lap. Heavens, Jojen was getting big as well. He was an alpha, so it made sense that he was almost Jon’s size.  

“Why must you wander so much?” Jon asked, hugging him tightly. “Why must you make me worry?”

“You should worry about yourself. I am protected by the gods and those who sing songs of earth. They understand my fate is not to die underneath a heart tree.”

Jon shook his head. “Unless you’ve heard the song of peaches, do not tell me you understand fate.”

“I have the greensight.”

“You have red blood and that makes you vulnerable. Human,” Jon reminded.

Jojen remained unconvinced. “Do you feel human, brother?”

“Yes.”

“Even when your skin changes form? Do you still feel human then?”

Jon sighed. “I regret engaging in those arts.”

“Good,” Jojen noted, smug that his original assessment was accurate.  “You weren’t ready. But one day you will be. You are a skinchanger, just like Bran and your sister, Arya.”

Arya? Jon thought in surprise. “Jojen, where did you hear these things?”

“I didn’t hear them,” Jojen reminded with a little sigh. “I saw them.”  

“Jojen,” Jon stressed.

“You’re going to run with wolves, Jon. I’ve seen you. A wolf with fur as white as snow, eyes as red as blood and as big as a horse,” Jojen swore. For the first time, he smiled at him. “Soon, Bran will be ready to embrace his abilities. He will be sent to the Neck where I will be asked to foster his talents. Before then, I have to grow myself.”

“Hence the sleeping,” Jon said with a reluctant. He shook his head. He remembered Lady Stark mentioning Bran’s fostering. “Perhaps, Bran will adapt better than I have.”

Jojen tilted his head in confusion. “But you are happy at Winterfell?”

“I am happy.”

“Are you not happy here?”

“I am happy,” Jon repeated.

“You don’t sound happy.”

Jon sighed. “My joy is a preexisting condition. It is subject to being overshadowed by detachment and thought. And worry for my little brother.”

Jojen did not fall for the joke. “Perhaps mother's absence  has made you dissatisfied.”

Jon stroked his brother’s hair. Jojen was wise and reasonable, and yet, his plausibility was wrong. “I am no stranger to this feeling. It occurs whenever Robb and I are separated. He makes me whole, and without him, I am half of myself.”  

Jojen snuggled further against Jon’s chest, hoping his warmth would sate his longing. “You will be together soon.”

“I know,” Jon reassured.

“You two are destined for each other.”

Jon laughed. “Your confidence is milk for the starving babe.”

“It is not confidence but foresight.” Jojen paused. He knew he was supposed to keep his outings a secret, even from the crannogmen, but his brother was sad. Jojen hated seeing him suffer. He stood up. “Come."

“Hmm?” Jon was surprised. His brother loathed traveling for anyone who wasn’t Bran.

“Come with me,” Jojen ordered again, sounding every bit the alpha he pretended not to be. “I want you to see what I see.”

Secrets with Jojen were always intriguing. Jon followed for the humor; for years, Jon’s brother revealed to him spells of snow and songs of lightning. He made flowers bloom before time had the chance and waters spring like the geysers of shaking mountains. Jojen possessed an aptitude for sorcery, and their mother intended to nurture that talent.

The alpha boy led Jon further into the swamps; dodging dangerous snakes and peeking lizard lions on their way to the mysterious destination. If not for his blind trust, Jon would have turned around and retreated to their crannog. Jojen’s adamancy won his commitment.

When Jojen stopped, Jon was faced with an unfamiliar tree. He suspected he was staring at a weirwood until he saw the hanging fruits.

“This is a fig tree,” Jon noted. “Why have you brought me here?”

Jojen picked out a piece. “Eat it and find out.”

A million doubts were running through Jon’s head. None of them were persuasive enough to overrule Jojen’s certainty. Jon took the fruit from his brother’s hand and sunk his teeth into it. When he finished swallowing, the bastard boy choked. He coughed until he fell to the ground and his vision turned black.

***

Jon never thought there would come a day where he would lay with a wolf, nor would he ever imagine himself being submissive to the beast’s demands. The wolfman bore the body of a human; his torso was thick with muscles and his broad shoulders overwhelmed Jon’s small form. His fitness aroused Jon’s instincts; his omega cunt grew wet from being in proximity of a worthy mate. When the beast growled through his long stout, Jon reached over and ran his fingers through the smoke grey fur and let his skin be burnt by the wolf’s yellow eyes. Jon moaned as the wolf plowed him like a fertile field.

“I am going to have your pups,” Jon vowed. He could not understand why the words left his mouth. “Fuck me full of them, please! Please!”

The wolfman flipped Jon on his hands and knees and started fucking into him like a bitch. It felt so good, Jon thought, his insides were melting. He could barely think or breathe.

I want his cock, he moaned, I want it over and over again. I want to be filled with his alpha's progeny.

“Fuck me,” he gasped out. “Fuck me hard, don’t stop!”  

Jon shut his eyes as his relief drew near. Right as the beast was about to release his seed, he howled at the moon and lodged his fangs into Jon’s neck. Jon’s blood splattered everywhere. The blood seeped into the ground and dyed their surroundings red. Jon dug his fingers into the blood dirt. The grains turned to mud before thinning into water. The blood from his veins transformed the earth into an ocean of crimson.  

Jon was overwhelmed with emptiness. He opened and saw that he was alone. The water beneath him swirled into a whirlpool, and he was sucked in without a thought of escaping. When he resurfaced from the depths of blood and hell, he was sitting at a table in a throne room. 

On the throne was a stag walking on two legs, watching his guests fill in. The stag sat down and golden chains bound his legs together. Beasts of all kinds came to take their seats. His fellow dinner companions stared at each other without once making contact to their leader. Jon saw a mermaid holding the skin of a man who had been stripped to his bone; besides her was a skeleton holding her leash. He saw a bear with thorny vines wrapped around his neck with a rose attached to each claw. Snakes were slithering on top of hands and feet, hissing at their misfortune. The ground was still wet with blood and Jon could see the dead fish floating to the surface.

Faceless men and women wearing red robes came in with concealed dinner plates and a goblet covered with cloth. Before Jon can reveal his dish, a roar that shook the earth echoed throughout the room. The guests remained immobile; they accepted the misfortune that was to come. A lioness wearing a false mane jumped over Jon's head and landed on the table. The beast marched  towards the trapped stag. The horned creature struggled to break free from his binds but he was too weak.

The lion pounced.

The stag was reduced to salvagery.  

From the befallen creature, another feet of blood flooded into the room. Jon's knees were soaked. The lion tore apart the flesh while the other animals stayed hungry and complacent. Jon, without thinking, removed the cap off his plate. There was nothing but bones. He removed the towel from his glass and saw molten dragonglass gleaming in the light. He picked up the goblet and the beast roared once more. This time, the lioness was looking at him.

At once, his guests started to shriek in unison horror. The lioness walked towards him as if in a trance. When the beast came close enough, Jon grabbed his spare bone and lodged it into the lion's mouth where her tongue was pierced and black blood was spewed.

A liar's tongue, Jon thought.

The lion roared in anger.

In his defense, Jon grabbed his goblet and poured out his dragonglass out. The liquid solidified and turned into a blade. He pushed it against the bones on his plate and watched it become steel. Equipped with a sword, Jon was able to strike straight into the beast's heart.

The blood rained upon his guests and behaved like acid. The animals of the kingdom disintegrated into mud. The sludge did not kill Jon. Instead, it coated his arms and overtook his body until he was taken away.

Jon's new environment was nothing spectacular, but it was special. He recognized the tree as the one he prayed to at Winterfell; the tree where his mother gave birth him at after a night of trialing labor. He saw his father  there, caressing Ice, his Valyrian sword. Lady Stark joined him. They were younger, at least by five years.. Lady Stark was on edge, and so was Jon's father.

"It is for the best that your offer was rejected. He does not belong here."

"He will come when he blossoms," Ned told her. The comment sounded like gravel in Catelyn's ears, but for Ned, it was a reassurance.  "Howland and I have come to an agreement."

Catelyn scoffed. "Of course you have. You are willing to negotiate with your lover. Heavens forbid, you give the same courtesy to your wife."

"I have offered you plenty of say," Ned spat out. Jon was taken back by the aggression. He had never seen his father so angry. "And that say has left me childless."

"You have Robb and Sansa and--"

"I don't have Jon!" Ned stabbed his sword into the ground. Catelyn jumped. Jon was surprised by the fear on her face. "All these years, I have been forced to learn about his growth through letters and week-long name days. I heard about his first steps instead of seeing them. Jon showed me how he held a spear when I should have been the one teaching him. These are aspects of his life that I will never recover through letters and visits. I need him here. I need him with me."

Catelyn clenched her fists. "He is a bastard," she reminded him. "His presence dishonors me. You would be so cruel as to make me endure that humiliation?"

"He is my son." Catelyn shook her head; she heard the words plenty times before. "I want to raise him alongside his brothers and sisters while they can still value his love."

Catelyn scoffed. "Don't act as if you care about them." 

Ned glared at her. "I love all my children. Do not insult my fatherhood, Catelyn.." 

"I am not denying you are a fair parent," Catelyn spat out. "I am merely stating a fact. You don't love your children like you love your bastard. If that boy were in the room, you would never so much as glance at your other children!"

"That is not true." A horrible thought came to mind. "Do you say such things to our children?" What poisons has she fed their children. 

"Of course I have not," Catelyn denied. "Why would I hurt them with the truth? I am not you. You and that bog devil wait for the day I turn in my grave."

Ned grabbed her wrist and tightened it. She gasped, and Jon copied the surprise. "Do not use that language against my son's people," he warned her. "Especially when Jon arrives. He will come when he blossoms. If I am lucky," Ned sighed. "He will bloom young. When that happens, I will hear no protest from you and none of this trash shall fill my children's ears."

There was silence. "Have I done nothing for you these last few years?" Catelyn asked. "Do my words mean nothing?"

"You have words."

"None of value!" Catelyn shouted.

"Your value ended when Robb was born!"

The words confirmed every fear Catelyn Stark had since her marriage. Recognizing his cruelty, Ned opened his mouth to apologized. "Catelyn —"

"Don't," Catelyn warned. "You are an honest man, Ned. Do not patronize me by saying you did not mean what you just said. I am not a fool." Catelyn walked towards him. She stared into his eyes and asked him for the truth.

"Have you ever wished me dead?"

Ned sighed. "Catelyn..."

"Answer me," Catelyn demanded. "Answer me and I will remain silent for Jon's flowering. You will not hear a whisper of protest from my lips. You will not hear me fight for my pride. It is yours."

"I do not wish to hurt you."

"I've done that to myself."

Ned, with the dignity of an honorable man, looked her in the eye when he answered.

"Yes," he confessed.

"When?"

Ned did not hesitate the second time. "When we were married. When Robb was born. When Howland was pregnant with Meera."

Catelyn could not help but laugh. "There were more times, weren't there?"

"Yes."

"How fortunate am I," Catelyn told him spitefully. "To have married an honest man." She laughed but the sound was as bitter as rotten fruit. "You must give my condolences to Howland. If you  loved him more than your duty, you would still be together.”

"Catelyn," the warning was caught between a plea. 

"I will keep promise. Seven or ten years from now when your spawn enters his first heat, our children will never hear a salt from cannister." Catelyn smiled wickedly. "I will hold my tongue, empowered by the knowledge that while that man would have given everything for you and your child; you would have never exchanged the same courtesy. And that," she reminded him. "Is more cruel than anything you have ever done to me."  

Those words pierced Jon and Ned alike. The bastard looked down and saw his heart bleeding. He watched as his father walked away without defending his honor and he saw unshed tears swelling up his eyes. He walked with dignity regardless and disappeared into the trees. Despite his father’s absence, the memory lingered and so did the pain. Wounds were formed on Jon’s skin, bleeding him out. Jon could not figure out how to satiated his pain.

He walked forward and stepped on a branch.

To his amazement, Catelyn turned around. She raised one of the eyebrows that shaped her bloodshot eyes.

“Why did you return?” she asked. Her voice was softer than it ever had been.

Jon lunged at her without thinking. His mind was consumed by pain. He wanted to stop hurting. His hands wrapped around Catelyn's throat. Her choking pleas brought him more relief than any drop of poppy. She scratched at him, and her talons healed the gaping scars all over his arms. Strengthened by his hatred, he throws her into the black pool and holds her down. While she grasped for freedom, Jon used all his strength to push her underneath the surface. It felt natural. He was stronger—stronger than he had ever been his entire life. As soon as her body became limp, Jon let her go. He touched his heart, and there was nothing there; not even a stain. 

Jon smiled in relief. He glanced at the corpse in the water and moved closer to watch her body sink. When he looked into the water, he saw father’s satisfied expression reflecting back at him.

***

The next morning, Jon woke up in his bed with Meera and Jojen curled into his arms. His mind was clear of any loneliness or concerns; when he touched his chest, he heard the beating of Robb’s heart. He was whole again. Without waking up his little siblings, Jon left the crannog. He broke out into a sprint, dashing past the earlier risers to get to the entrance facing the southern plains.

He stood out in the open where anyone could see, friend or foe. If a Frey was having an early morning, he would be dead. If his mother were here, he would have reprimanded him for being a fool while his father would have given Jory a lashing for leaving him unattended. Neither thought reached his consciousness as the horses in the horizon came into view.

Jon stood there. He was too far away to be seen by the party; it would have been safer for him to retreat to the swamps. Jon waited instead.

Out of the many stallions, one started to gallop faster than the others. It was headed in his direction. Jon watched the horse charged towards him without fear or joy. He was simply waiting for fate. Jon did not need to see the rider’s face or feel his kiss to know that Robb was coming for him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mother's Day!  
> “First” day of my hiatus starts now. I’m glad I was able to post this in time. Please, enjoy this chapter. Once I finish writing the chapters, I’ll put some previews up on my twitter. :) I'll probably be editing a few chapters when I have time, too. But, here is [a schedule of the updates.](https://twitter.com/CheshireSua/status/861118119032479744)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't hate Domeric before, you will hate him in this chapter. He pulls some emotional and physical shit with Theon.

Robb stood right in front of him.  

The Stark heir had dashed over on horseback, fast as the grey winds in a storm. Jon’s eyes clouded over with wonder; he was as frozen as ice lands the Starks lorded over. The bastard was not sure whether or not the dream before him was brought on by pinning, or reality. Nothing was clear until Robb took a step forward.

Jon dashed into the solace of his arms, wrapped himself in the heat of the intimacy. He was on the edge of crying, for he had never wanted anything so badly and have his prayers answered. Jon planned their reunion to be a heartfelt but confined affair, one that could be celebrated more thoroughly in private. Despite it all, Jon cannot deny what his heart wanted, and Jon’s heart wanted nothing more than to live alongside Robb. When they touched, Robb kissed Jon’s temple first, before moving onto his left cheek and then his right, his collarbone, and finally rested on his lips. They continue such a cycle without a care, playing blind men to the eyes in the background.

More galloping was heard from a distance. Robb reached out for one more kiss. Jon whimpered and pulled at his sleeves. Loneliness and desire had made him blind to reason. Jon's moans tugged at Robb’s cock.

Jon was as lovely as Robb remembered, perhaps even more so. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and with every new day, Robb loved him more than the day before.

“I want to take you,” Robb growled, his teeth brushing against Jon’s ear. “Now.”

Jon gasped. The horses were drawing closer. Horses carrying Robb’s mother, their sisters, their father’s entire party. But Robb was relentless with his touches—he manhandled him and whispered filthy things about the things he would do to Jon once they were alone.

“For days, I’ve been without you. Can you imagine how heavy my balls have become?" He brought Jon's hands to his groin and made him weigh his heavy cock and balls. Jon moaned. More slick dripped down his thighs. "I’m going to fill you up until your womb is fat with child. I want cum spilling out of your mouth.  You're going to be known as the Northern whore after I stretch out your fucking cunt.  _Fuck—_!” Robb grabbed Jon by the curls and pulled him into another rough kiss. “You’re mine." He made Jon put his hand down his pants. The horses were coming closer. Jon could hear them neigh, but neither of them focused on anything other than each other. "I keep thinking about how tight you've gotten. How I need to ruin your holes again. You need that."

Jon wanted to scream. He grabbed Robb by the wrist and dragged him into the protection of the Neck. The two of them bypassed the swamps and the rotting trees, stepped on top of a moving crannog before moving onto another one. Robb had never run so fast in his life and never so blindly. He put his full faith into Jon, more than he had any other god, and followed. When Jon finally stopped, Robb looked around and saw that he was in the presence of a rotting godswood and in front of him was the biggest weirwood tree he had ever seen.

Jon kissed him before any questions could be asked. When they parted, Jon caressed Robb’s cheek and smiled. “This is the greatest weirwood of the Neck. There are several others but they are much smaller and this one…” Jon swallowed, but he wasn’t nervous. He was embarrassed. “This one is where my father and mother first made love.” Jon wrapped his arms around Robb and pulled him close. “This is where they were married.”

Robb didn’t need to hear anything else. He captured Jon in another kiss and tore off Jon’s shirt before any protests could be uttered. Jon laughed, high off the blessings of love, and lost himself in the pleasure. He undid the ties on Robb’s trousers and pulled out his cock. The two fell to the ground in a tumble, searching for all the crevices and corners of each other’s bodies. Before long, Jon was sprawled on his back with Robb nestled in between his legs, fingers opening up with slow, contained movements. It had been too long since they were together and Jon tightened like a noose underneath him. They were out in the open, prepared to be caught at any moment, _free_.

It was perfect.

“Missed this,” Robb muttered as Jon’s ass clenched around his fingers. He leaned in and pressed a kiss against his lover’s temple. Jon purred like a kitten. 

“Fucking gods, you’re so sweet.”

Jon spread his legs further apart. He was red and pink all over. His cheeks were flushed with arousal and his hole puckered around Robb’s thumb, sucking Robb in with his pinkness.

Robb groaned and twisted his fingers inside so that he can tease Jon’s prostate. He decided that this was going to be the hole he used first. It was so eager, dripping all over his fingers like a well.

“Robb, please. It’s been too long; I can’t handle anymore teasing.” Jon was a mess of bitch; turning the ground into a puddle with his fluids. Robb leaned down to lick a sliver of sweat off his chest. Jon’s insides were hotter than usual—days of being apart made him more desperate than ever—and now his hole was reflecting his wantonness.

“Please, please…I need your cock. Please,” Jon whimpered. His eyes were glazed over, focusing only on his pleasure, and drool flowed freely from his mouth. Robb pushed his fingers deeper to prepare Jon for his cock. The second the tips touched his prostate, the younger boy was coming all over his chest.

“Gods,” Robb grunted out. “You’re aching for it, aren’t you?” 

“Hurts, Robb,” Jon whined. “I need you.”

Robb wasted no time slipping his fingers out of Jon’s hole, admiring the slick, squelching noises as he left. He pressed his cock against Jon’s opening before sinking deep inside. Robb grunted as Jon’s hole, snug and warm, stretched to accommodate his thickness. He was so small, Robb moaned, pushing in further to feel that clenching heat. Jon squirmed and screamed as Robb’s pulsing veins rubbed against his insides.

Robb’s cock disappeared into Jon’s plump ass. There was no need for clenching on his brother’s part. Jon's plush inside stuck to him like honey.  It wasn’t long until he was buried balls deep and bellowing up hefty thrusts into his ass.

“Fuck, Jon,” Robb snapped. He pressed his palm against the bulge in Jon’s stomach. His cock was splitting his lover open.

Jon did not respond, eyes hooded and mind gone from the cock inside him. On instinct, he spread his thighs further apart and made short, curt bounces on the giant cock lodged inside him.

Robb growled and picked up the pace. He moved closer to work his hips further, managing to press against Jon’s sweet spot in the process. Jon came again, wrapping around Robb’s cock in the tightest, most unbearable embrace possible. The feeling of it had his eyes slipping close and delight pulsating inside him.

“Perfect, Jon. I’m so close.” Jon whimpered underneath him, drained and fatigue. Robb could feel Jon’s release adding to his already soaked body. It made their fucking sound filthier. “I’m going to fuck you full, Jon.”

It didn’t take long for Robb to finish. He grabbed Jon’s cheeks and pressed them together to add friction to his cock. Once he clasped them together, he shoved himself in as deep as possible into Jon’s womb. Robb emptied his release into Jon within seconds. His cock swelled up with a half-swollen knot, meant to ensure another round. Even if Jon wanted to, he couldn't escape. 

Robb loved being an alpha.

Despite being plugged inside him, some of the release escaped from Jon’s hole. The sight of Jon’s sloppy fucked out expression had Robb's grinning like a mad man. He immediately grabbed Jon’s thighs and wrapped them around his wrists. With Jon’s wading consciousness, Robb had the power to move him as he pleased and made sharp, jabbing movements into Jon’s body. He still needed to fuck Jon’s cunt before the rest of his family went looking for them. For now, his cock craved a second round in Jon’s ass.

Seconds away from passing out, Jon’s hooded eyes stared at the weirwood's crying face, wondering if they've ever regretted a union they blessed.

***

Though Jon’s friends begged him to stay longer, particular with his brother and lover in tow, he refused. He wanted to make it to Winterfell in less than three days’ time. After some goading, the two agreed to have breakfast in the Neck before setting out on their journey. The girls were excited about the news, happy to take part in Jon's home traditions. Even Sansa found their freedom fascinating. 

While they ate, Robb’s cock was still coated in Jon’s slick. Robb almost regretted leaving the Neck so soon when one of Jon’s friends dropped his cup and asked the Snow to pick it up. Jon agreed and much to Robb’s surprise, found his cock being engulfed by Jon's plush mouth. His mother was sitting at the end of the table. Though she had not turned towards him, she was close. Robb looked down and saw that Jon was sucking him off without shame. Robb heard giggling from all of his hosts; the boy from his left leaned in and asked if he was sure about leaving.

His questioner was gorgeous—a Fenn or Boggs, Robb couldn’t remember. All he remembered was how the mysterious boy laid a discreet hand on Jon’s head and stuffed Robb’s cock further down his throat. Robb’s tongue bled to hold back his moans.

“We’re an accommodating sort,” the crannogman purred as Jon tried to breathe. “We understand you and Jon do not share, but there’s nothing wrong with having fun with friends. We are friends, aren’t we? Lord Robb?”

Tears welled up in Jon’s eyes. He swallowed so that Robb could feel the ripples around his cock.

“Fuck,” Robb gasps. The crannogman’s hand was still on Jon, and he made no attempts to remove it. He laughed instead.

“Jon and I are quite close. We used to listen to the older omegas tell us  about the alphas they've fucked, and getting  lessons on how to pleasure their cocks.” He grabbed Robb’s hand and placed it on top of his breast. Robb groaned, and despite his self-control, his fingers couldn’t help but twitch and squeeze. “One of them told us that alphas like to feel powerful and that sometimes, being an obedient little _cockwarmer_ was all they needed to come.”

Jon’s friend released his grip and grabbed Robb’s hand instead. He sucked on Robb’s fingers until they were deep inside his throat. Robb closed his eyes when the boy started talking again.

“Did you know? Another one used to show us how to use our tongues. Made us practice relaxing our throats on cobs so that we can choke on a cock without a problem. Jon left before we could get more advanced lessons, but I’m sure you taught him well.”

Robb made short, curt thrusts into Jon’s throat until the friction became unbearable. He took his fingers out of the crannogman’s mouth and used both hands to grab Jon’s head and shove his cock down his throat. Jon choked this time, and within seconds, Robb was coming. Huge globs of cum poured into Jon’s stomach. Jon took in every drop, trying not to draw attention to himself. Most of the Neck knew what he was getting up to, but his more Northern compatriots didn’t. Robb slumped in his seat when he was finished.

When Jon came up, he handed the cup back to his friend and cleared his throat with his own refreshments.  

Robb was taken back by his nonchalance. He stared at Jon’s blissed out expression, how red his face was and how large his pants were. The only thing more noticeable than his red body was his pleased expression. When Jon notice his worry, he smiled and lean over for a small, chaste kiss.

“Next time we are here,” Jon whispered dreamily, “I want you to stay with me.” Jon rubbed his still open cock. “I'd like for you to meet all of my friends, _properly_. We’ll have so much fun, I swear.”

Laughter was heard from around the room. Eyes and ears everywhere, he remembered. Robb sighed, hands shaking, and took a large gulp of his drink. No wine for breakfast but he was grateful for the sobriety. He shook his head to remove any wayward thoughts. The Neck was a strange place; it was like the air was made of poppy and everyone was hooked on the high. 

As Robb felt his cock massaged for the second time, his mind shut down. Like many alphas, the thought of a gorgeous omega prepared for another fucking was more of a consecration than a complaint.  Jon was more open than ever. He knew that once Jon was in his right mind—in Winterfell—Robb will be scolded for thinking with his cock _again_. 

He should put an end to this behavior. 

All of Robb’s convictions shattered when Jon’s lips traced over his ear, and his tongue flicked out to taste his skin. His hand was still on his cock and then joined by another unfamiliar palm. There was more laughter, more joyous sounds of beautiful omegas watching his even more perfect omega bring him pleasure.

Robb sighed. Weren't children taught _not_ to look a gift horse in the mouth? Perhaps, Jon’s newfound hedonism was a nice foreshadowing to their futures, or at the very least, a lovely motivator for what they planned to accomplish together.  

***

The two set out to Winterfell after breakfast, which resulted in an hour of the greatest pleasure in Robb’s life. Jon was more relentless and reckless than ever before, he sucked, fucked, and offered Robb a chance to do whatever he wished to Jon’s body. Robb never denied him once, and when a few of the crannogman sat to watch, he couldn’t refuse—not when Jon was so accommodating to their requests. When the offers became more explicit, Jon was more than happy to oblige. Robb had never thought so many of his fantasies could come alive in one hour, but they did. 

After the Neck, they traveled on the same horse, with Jon asking to hold the reigns. Robb was not surprised by the lead Jon wanted to take—not until Jon insisted he warm his fingers in his cunt while they rode. The galloping made his movements uncontrollable, with his fingers curling and twisting inside of Jon at random points of time. They tried their best to get ahead, only to fail and fall behind. Jon was not complaining; he took advantage of their defeat by moaning like a battle horn and begging for Robb’s cock to their next camp.

A better man would have questioned his lover’s sudden change, and a clever one would have sought a solution. Robb was neither better nor clever. Despite his inhibitions running amuck, Jon was still his sweet and insightful self. He was unusually lucid after their romps in the forest or their fumbling in the tents, promising to be good to Robb while swearing this was the last time he was so reckless with their relations. He never followed through with the last declaration, but he remained true to his character.  

When they arrived in Winterfell, a soaked saddle and a horse drunk off pheromones, Jon was lustfulness had worn off again. He was more jovial than ever when he greeted their father, jumping off to capture their sire in a hug. Ned took him in his arms as gleefully as Robb had ever seen him. He was holding him even as he hugged the girls. When Robb came closer to greet him, he noticed the lines of his father’s face were more pronounced than ever. 

“Was everything alright while we were gone?” Robb asked.

His father nodded. As always, his disposition was coarse as the sands of the Bay of Seals. “Things were as it should be. I heard you achieved high marks at the tourney.”

Robb nodded. “I was second.”

Ned made a noise that could have been approval or disappointment. Jon was smiling, regardless, so Robb hoped for the former. “I trust you will strive for higher in the future. That is, if you chose to participate in other tourneys.”

Robb and Jon shared a look. The ambiguous nature of their father’s words made his praise impossible to read, especially if one was a Stark and not a Snow or a Reed. Thankfully, Jon was a seasoned maester in the art of his father’s affections and could feel the pride radiating from his father’s pulse. He provided a kiss to break the strife. When his lips against the bristly beard, he laughed joyously, bringing about a small but loving smile on Lord Stark’s face.  

“How is mother?” Jon asked once the tension broke. “Did he leave already?”

Ned frowned at the question. “Your mother never came. I was told he had business in the Neck too dire for him to visit. Did you not see him?”

Jon shook his head. “He left the Neck before I arrived.”

There was a pause. Lord Stark narrowed his eyes.

“Do you know when?”

“I never asked,” Jon answered. He tried to recall what the other crannogmen told him but could remember nothing of worth. “Perhaps he made a trip to the White Harbor for supplies? He was seen heading North.”

“There are many reasons he could travel north,” Ned muttered under his breath. “A horse, maybe?”

“Father?” Jon’s worried expression him stopped Ned from suggesting further theories. The lord sighed and tried his best not to let his suspicions get the best of him. Jon was a sensitive child, one brimming with innocence he hoped would never be marred.  

“He must have business with Lord Manderly, some matter of trading or thieves. You have nothing to worry about.”

Their father was a horrid liar, but Jon would never curse his questions on a man with no answers. The strangeness would be investigated later. For now, he hoped for a bath to rid himself of his travel-borne fatigue. “If that is the truth, then I can rest easy.”

Jon watched his father sigh in relief. His father’s honest nature would be the death of him one day. He could never hold a story until the end.

“Robb?” Jon called. He grabbed Robb’s hand and urged him forward. Aphrodisiacs of the highest caliber must have coated his cunt for he was insatiable. He found that only Robb’s cock could relieve his yearning. He swore never to leave his brother's side again if withdrawal made him so wanton. "Come join me in the springs." 

Robb did not need to be asked twice. 

Ned interrupted their plans. “I have some business with Robb. He won’t be able to join you in the baths.”  

Heat raged inside his body and it took all his self-restraint to stifle it down. “Will it take long? I can wait.”

“It will take a while. You must be tired. Take a dip in the springs and go to bed.”

“I rather wait for Robb.”

“You are tired, Jon. You’ve traveled a long way to get home and your face is sallow and red at once. When I held you, you had a fever. Take a bath and be rested.”

“I want to wait for Robb!”

The disobedience alarmed him. “Jon, you have bathed alone before. You do not need your brother’s presence.”

“I want to wait. I do not feel like being alone today! Must you take everything from me?” Jon snapped. He placed a hand over his mouth to cover his shock. 

Ned was surprised as well. He was more inexperience than he cared to admit and he had no clue on how to deal with such odd behavior from his eldest omega.

Jon hastily turned his eyes to the floor. “I am sorry. I am being disrespectful.” He tried to reason his behavior and found the only thing that made sense was his sorrow. He struggled to get out of the words, “It has been a while since I’ve stayed in the Neck. I was able to see Meera and Jojen again and…leaving so soon has made me…nostalgic for another time. I’ve taken it out on you, father. Please forgive me.”

Ned did not hesitate to offer his sympathies. Guilt played a part in his leniency, for he, third to Howland and Jon, remembered the pain he caused when he ripped his son out of his mother’s arms. It was another tragedy he bestowed on the man he loved, and no matter how many promises he made to the gods, it seemed his punishments were never-ending on the men he loved. “Forgiveness is not necessary,” he declared.  

If any outsiders were listening, they would have been surprised by the generosity. Any of his children would have been discipline for being so defiant. But Jon was his babe; his cub to spoil, and Ned took advantage of his bastard status to rain liberties on him. “Prepare your bath, and I will send Robb in as soon as possible to join you.”

Jon nodded. He planted another kiss on Ned’s temple, this one in triumph. The Snow child dashed over to the castle while Robb watched in disbelief at how his little brother received his way. Though it was not the first time their father had spared the rod, it was the first time Robb noticed the difference in their upbringing. Robb was not offended of the preference towards his half-brother. If anything, he received a welcome spurt of energy, like drinking giant’s blood or eating eels. Father may be their sire, but that did not mean he considered them true brothers—not entirely. He knew they were different and that difference was a circumstance he could take advantage of.

Ser Rodrik did praise him for his ability to detect weakness.

The present and future Lord Stark walked into the study, where a map was laid out haphazardly, alongside a few other papers Robb would one-day study as Lord of Winterfell. Robb glanced over and noticed that the sigil of House Greyjoy was on one of the letters. He waited for an explanation.

Ned gave a long, heavy sigh before sitting on the chair. “Lady Asha of House Greyjoy made her appearance here.” 

“Was there an altercation?” 

Winterfell had the resources to defend any Ironborn attack, but an act of aggression could potentially endanger Theon’s life. At the moment, the omega was at Dreadfort, admiring his future dwellings and preparing for his dowry negotiation.   

Ned shook his head. “Lady Asha came on civil terms.” The word ‘civil’ being used loosely. “She inquired about Lord Domeric and his intentions with Theon. When I announced they were betrothed, she was not happy. She was less pleased to learn that the engagement was already in motion, and done entirely without her approval.” Ned shook his head. “It was careless of us to accept the proposal without consulting with their house."

“It was our right,” Robb denied, partially as a justification to their insolence and another out of childish irritation. He bared no love to a family who wished to claim heirs when convenient. For nine years, Robb was the one who comforted Theon, the one who held his hand and wiped away his tears. Together, they withstood Balon Greyjoy's rejection and together, they built up Theon's esteem. “We sent them word when it came to his ceremony, and they did not respond. Theon is your ward, and you have funded his upbringing. Maybe not by nature but by law, you had a right to extend his hand in marriage.”

Despite the sound reasoning, Ned was hesitant to agree. He did not want to get in the habit of starting wars. “While Lady Asha was here, she demanded the duty of the dowry. I informed her it was already her right and directed her to the Dreadfort.”

Robb’s lips curled into something between disapproval and worry. “Is she there already?”

“Her ships were seen on the coast.”

Robb sighed. “She could cause problems for Theon by being there. The Ironborn don’t care for outsiders, and beauty on those lands are scarce. How do we know she isn’t there to stop their betrothal?”

“That is no longer our concern.”

Robb clenched his fist. Their ineptitude made the matter no less comforting.

“So there is nothing we can do?”

“I was going to send you if no one could come in the Greyjoy’s place. If you believe you can provide a comfort to Theon without becoming an adversary to the Greyjoys, by all means, go.”

Robb glared, having discussed the matter with his father before the ceremony, he knew he was powerless. There was no way he, another non-familial alpha, could interfere in their betrothal without threatening either Asha or Domeric.

While Robb mulled over the issue, Ned changed the topic. “What do you think of Domeric, having seen him at the tourney?”

Robb frowned. He dearly wished for some ale or wine of some sort. 

"Why do you ask?" 

Ned's lip twitched. "Lord Bolton is an ambitious man. He aimed to marry into a great house when we were peers but failed. Regardless, he is efficient, cunning, and ruthless." Ned frowned. "I am wondering if his son has inherited these traits."

“Well, he is certainly not frivolous,” Robb offered. “No time for nonsense.”

“Unlike Theon?”

Robb shrugged. “Opposites can bring the best out of each other?” Though he hardly believed it, and neither did his father.

“It’s good to have common interests, a method of conciliation if marriage proves difficult.”

Robb agreed. “I don’t doubt he will be a fair husband to Theon, if not out of honor than for the sake of his reputation. Bad husbands make for poor bed partners and people are hesitant to join forces with a wife-beater. Even out of necessity, they aren’t trusted.”

“Fair point.”

“But the Boltons are no friends of the Starks,” Robb admitted. “I don’t care for his company, and neither does Jon."

Ned became on edge. The mention of his darling son always alerted his attention. “Has Jon mentioned being wronged at any point?”  

Robb shook his head. “He mentioned a distaste towards Lord Bolton. That’s all. He does not like the way he talks to his mother.”

“What way is this?” Lord Stark stood up. “Has Lord Bolton attempted to harm Lord Reed?”

If there was a book on every behavior his father forbade, the pages would be crossed out and scribbled over when Howland Reed was concerned. The man was obsessed with his lover’s well-being and became beast-like when his affections were being threatened.

“No attempts that I am aware of,” Robb noted evenly. “But Jon may have a clearer idea. He’s quite vague on the matter.”

Ned clutched onto the desk to contain his anger. Memories of the war resurfaced, including Bolton's pervasive comments. He settled down and cleared his throat. “Have you expressed these concerns with Theon?”

“What good will that do?” Robb got up from his chair. “Theon is a grown man. He’s made his decision.”

“Being grown does not stop you from being green,” Ned muttered solemnly. “If that is your belief, then we will leave the matter to the Boltons and the Greyjoys to settle.”

Robb nodded. “May I be excused, father?”

Ned gave a motion for dismissal. For the rest of the night, Lord Stark would be locked in his study, hunched over documents and searching through the archives for methods on preservations. When it was time to break for food, he would wear himself to the bone by investigating Howland’s disappearance. His lover was as wily as a fox and no matter how often Ned had been dragged into his schemes, he was weak to those green eyes and tantalizing lips. Ned would forgive Howland for all his trespasses. For years, the Lord of Winterfell sought to make sure those trespasses never occurred. 

For years, he failed.

Robb, on the other hand, journeyed to the baths to join his lover. Before entering, he told a wandering servant that their services were no longer needed and to inform his mother of their absence at the dining hall. Once they were finished, he and Jon would return to their rooms to rest.  

As he stepped into the steaming room, Robb pushed away his concerns for his foster brother. Theon was arrogant and vain, fragile as glass and glutinous for more than he can swallow. Yet, Robb could think of no other, alpha or omega, who was more devoted to their elevation. For this, Robb was envious of the kraken. Theon was ruthless. He would fuck a horde of alphas if it meant securing an army and set an orphanage on fire if it guaranteed a home.

***

Even from afar, the Dreadfort was an impressive specimen. The walls were thick as stone and high as skies, and the merlons were crafted to imitate sharp teeth. All the towers were massive, meant to evoke a sense of fear to those who lived on the outside. Its great hall was dim and smoky, with rows of torches grasped by skeletal human hands jutting from the walls. The hall had a vaulted ceiling and wooden rafters that were charcoal black.

“The smoke did that,” said the servant leading Theon through the halls.

The structure was the embodiment of misery. It was not the castle Theon imagined for himself but it was fearsome and he would take it over any salt-drenched hell.

When Domeric departed from a nearby room, he gestured the two towards him. The servant acted in haste, dragging Theon along without touching him. The servant bowed.

“You may leave,” Domeric dismissed. “I have matters to discuss with Theon.”

“Of course, milord.”

When they were alone, Domeric placed his hand on Theon’s waist. The ironborn shivered but maintained his composure.

“I hope you’ve been informed of our unexpected guest.” 

Theon nodded. “I have.” He tried to remain amicable, but his ribs were cracking from his heart’s pounding. “Forgive my sister. Alphas on the iron shores, they’re not raised with any grace.”  

Domeric nodded. “I understand.” They continued down the hall for some time. “I will do my best to make her comfortable. She is to be the Lady of the Iron Islands, after all, and more importantly, my good sister.” Theon swore the spirits of the tortured and tormented were following him with their eyes and every chill he received was the ice of their fingers, sucking out his life’s blood.

“Is there a problem, Theon?”

 “Just a chill,” Theon lied. 

“Did the servants not light enough candles in your room?”

Theon shook his head. “Oh, it is no fault of theirs. I am dressed improperly. I had thought with all the torches; I could wear one of the southern dresses I received from Highgarden. It seems I have forgotten how cold the winds are in this part of the North. You must think me quite foolish.”

Truth be told, Theon only wore this dress because of the fetching way it amplified his bodice. Domeric, for all his stoicism, had been sneaking looks throughout their walk. When Theon learned of Asha’s unannounced arrival, he almost tore the laces out. Asha was going to take one look at him and deemed the North turned him into a whore.

“Not at all,” Domeric denied. “You are the fairest bride to have ever walked these halls.”

Theon smiled as if that were high praise. He did not doubt Domeric’s flattery. The Boltons were not known for breeding beauties, both a testament to their wicked blood and their inability to attract a finer mate. He supposed there were worst things than to be known as the most beautiful Bolton to have ever lived.

“The Dreadfort is a powerful beast to manage. I hope all goes well with my sister. Nothing would please me more than to the lord of this great fortress.”

Domeric agreed. “The gods are on our side.”

“Oh? Have you spoken to them?” Theon hoped to sound coy, maybe even playful. He glanced over at his betrothed and saw nothing but the severity of a warrior, clutching onto a sword as his fingers were chopped off. Domeric was staring at a portrait of the wall, one dedicated to a distant ancestor. “We were called the Red Kings once. We ruled over the lands stretching from the Last River to the White Knife and the Sheepshead Hills. People feared us. Ever since the Long Night, we fought against the Kings of Winter, our greatest enemy and contender for the North. We wore cloaks made of their flayed flesh and went to battle with their blood in our mouths.”

Theon frowned. “How horrible.”

“Don’t be weak,” Domeric snapped.

Theon’s pride absorbed that slap like the liver took liquor. “I am not weak!” he hissed. The horror of his actions followed immediately after. The Greyjoy looked down to cover his slip up. “Apologies, my lord.”

Domeric regained his detachment in tune. “I was out of line. You are perfect.” The Bolton brushed his fingers against Theon’s cheek. He moved his hand down to Theon’s chest and trailed the slit of Theon’s swollen, compressed breasts. Theon stiffened but did not move away.

“It’s as if the gods created an omega using my ideal,” Domeric murmured.

Despite their kind message, the words stung like an accusation. Theon turned towards the painting to hide from his betrothed’s gaze.

Domeric did not take his eyes off him. Theon winced when he spoke. “As a Greyjoy, you are a descendant of the legendary Grey King. Within you is the blood of kings who have held the shores of the Sunset Sea all the way to the Bear Islands. Some might argue that any child of ours has a rightful claim to these lands.”

Theon frowned. “The Starks won those lands centuries ago. Our houses have long bend the knee.”

“The curse of monarchs is that they often lose their thrones in the way they’ve inherited it. Usurpers have a tendency to be usurped themselves.”

Before Theon could respond, Domeric continued his stride forward. “I’ve arranged for a meal to be brought to you and your sister. I trust you will remind her of how _beneficial_ our union will be for you.” He brought Theon’s hand to his lips and kissed him goodbye. Theon’s glare was on him when he left and ended when he was no longer in sight. Theon entered the dining room. There was Asha, drinking like the fish that swam in the iron waters.

Theon remembered Asha as an ugly girl, whose beauty in comparison to him, was a little more than a tack pretending to be a blade. This Asha was lean with long legs that swung over the table in an uncouth manner. Her black hair was cut short and her hands were chafed and rough as an alpha should be. Though he found familiarity in the angle of her cheeks and the fierceness of her glower, he would not have recognized her as blood if she didn't come on her iron fleet.

Asha did not stand to greet him; Theon felt foolish for expecting such respect as a Northern-raised omega when he could not accomplish so much as an Iron-born babe. Her reaction was fitting. She glanced over at his state of dress and snorted.

“You look like a whore.”

Theon, whose confidence could rival the brightest suns of Dorne, felt his pride gutted by the insult. Asha did not notice his fallen disposition. She stood up and kept on talking, running her tongue through his heart over and over again.

“Did that alpha make you wear that? Figures, alphas like that look. It isn’t enough you give him a hole to fuck, he needs something for his eyes.”  

Theon gritted his teeth. “Asha, you are being very rude."

“Bet he imagines putting his cock through your tits. How could he not? What do you do to get those silks, Theon? Do you let him use your mouth? Has he fucked your cunt yet or just the other holes?”

“Asha, don't say such things. It's not...” Theon struggled to get the words out. "Civil," he hissed. 

Asha chuckled but there was no mirth. “You talk like them to. Civil. Fucking hell, Theon. You’re better than this. Where is my little brother? I came here for him, not some harbor whore—”

“Asha!”  

"—who'd spread his legs to get a dress!" 

"Do not say that!"

"God, if father could see the whore he gave away —"

"Stop it!" 

"Asha, will you shut the fuck up!" 

The entire room became quiet. Theon took a deep breath. He grabbed the wine flask and poured himself a cup. One of the servants came in. They set the plates in silence, not once paying mind to the feuding siblings. They were the essence of discretion—Lord Bolton made sure of that.

Theon ignored the food for more wine. When he finished his gulp, he gathered the gall to ask what she was doing at the Dreadfort.

Asha’s eyes softened. “I got your letter.”

Theon scoffed. “So?”  

“So my omega brother— _the only brother_ I have left—is getting married.” Asha sat back down. “How could I not come?”

“I only asked you to name a limit for the dowry. You did not have to be here.” 

Asha slammed her fist against the table. “A dowry?” She sneered. “Is that all our family means to you? A few ships and a couple of coins?”

Theon shook his head and laughed cruelly. He discarded his wifely guise in favor of his warrior spirit; he would not be made the victim today. “You should be grateful it is so cheap. Father will be dancing in the shores after getting rid of me; his stupid, _whore_ son.” He poured himself more wine. The glass shook in Theon’s hand and spilled over when he drank. “It’s been nine years, and the first word you utter towards me was ‘whore.’ You call yourself my sister but you and father have abandoned me ages ago. I may not raid or pillage, but I have survived the only way I could after your loss.” Theon stood up. “You should leave. I will send a raven to Winterfell. They will appoint Robb as my guardian alpha, and he will settle the dowry in your place.”

Asha knocked the plates off in anger. “Do not play such a childish game, Theon! I am your guardian alpha! I am your sister!”

“I have made my decision, Asha. I don’t want you here.”

“Like hell you have.” Asha grabbed his arm. When she saw the terrified look on his face, she reached out to comfort him, but the sight of her palm made him flinch. Her heart wrenched at the fear in his eyes. She thought herself over such weakness but Theon had a gift; he could melt her iron heart and make her blood sing with sorrow.  

“What’s with that look?” She asked gruffly. She hated it. Hated how he acted like a salt wife, beaten and bred until he was grateful for a morsel of kindness. “You look like a dog.”

Theon glared; it was the fiercest she’s seen him since they met. She would have been proud if not for the words spoken.

“If I recall, the last time a Greyjoy touched me, it wasn’t out of love.”

Theon turned his back on her at that moment. He lifted his dress and held his head up with pride. When he returned to his room, Theon ripped off his corset and tore through the silk to rid himself of the dress. His beautiful dress, the one he was so proud to receive was suddenly as filthy as a rat’s ass. He wanted it burnt, used as fodder for the fireplace or as cloth to wipe shit off shoes. The more degrading, the better.  

Someone knocked on the door during his tirade.

“I am not in the mood for company!” Theon shouted. He grabbed his dresses out of his wardrobe and made plans for all of their demises. They were all like the ones before. Pretty, frivolous, fit for a _whore_. While he looked for a knife in his belongings, he almost cried. If Ramsay could see him, he would have laughed at his foolishness, right before calling Asha a windless bag of cocks. The thought made Theon laugh despite his fuming.

From behind him, Theon heard the doorknob turn. He was about spit fire when the entrance revealed Domeric’s form. Theon panicked, for he knew Domeric would not be pleased by his behavior. He tried to provide a justification, but the excuse came out in jumbles. Domeric raised his hand to silence him.

“It is alright. The maids informed me of your sister’s vulgarity. I do not blame you for feeling offended.”

Theon sighed in relief. “Thank you, Lord Domeric.”

Domeric nodded. He walked forward. Theon assumed that his betrothed was inspecting for damages of his tantrum before realizing that he was practically undressed. His corset was about to fall off and he was down to a single layer of skirt.

“I see you’ve ruined your dress.”

Theon turned red. “Asha was not pleased by it. She thought it was …wanton.”

Domeric paused. To Theon’s surprise, he agreed. “I’m sure your sister will be more accommodating once she sees how well you’ve taken her advice.” Domeric tenderly stroke his cheek when he finished talking. It felt forced; like a statue masquerading as a human being.  

Theon clenched his fists. While he was grateful Domeric’s aggression had not resurfaced since Winterfell, he could not help but spite Domeric’s favor towards his oppression. Ramsay would never encourage him to follow another alpha’s wishes. If it were him, he would have cut Theon’s skirts and parade him around like a true whore.

Before Theon could let his daydream prosper, Domeric’s frozen fingers slipped off his top, leaving him bare.

“Domeric, what are you doing?”

“Don’t play innocent,” Domeric scolded; his tone was so soft, Theon could have mistaken it for gentle. The flaying heir pulled down the waistline of Theon’s skirt and dropped it to the floor. “You are a vision.” The praise came off as critique. Theon was judged while Domeric stripped away his clothing and dignity.

“This isn’t proper,” Theon reminded. He offered a forgiving smile, waving off Domeric’s violation as a joke. He tried to push the Bolton away, but it was futile. Domeric twisted his arm around his back and bent him over the bed. He shoved Theon’s face into the mattress. Theon’s mouth was stuffed with stunning silks, and he could taste the treated satin down his throat. Drool and tears stained his dresses as he tried his hardest to breathe.

“You’ve been so good to me these last few days,” Domeric noted. There was no inflection in his voice. Theon swore there was more emotion in history texts. “I’ve overlooked your grooming in the process. That was my mistake. Letting you speak to your sister without a chaperone was another. I should have prepared you. Made it clear on what you needed to say to ensure our future together.” Domeric twisted his arm further. Theon struggled to break free but the fabric muffled his screams.

Domeric sighed as he traced his fingers against Theon’s slit. “Still as wet as ever.” He brought the finger up to his mouth and licked. “Sweet. As expected of high-born omega. Better than the horse shit peddled in the taverns.”

With one of his hands preoccupied, Domeric’s grip weakened. Theon managed to free his mouth for a plea. “Domeric!  I am to be your wife; you cannot do this!”  

“Do not worry,” Domeric assured. “I have no plans to hurt you. What kind of fool damages his own property?” He pressed his hand against Theon’s cunt, sliding the finger between his folds. “Once you know your place, there will be no need to discipline you in the future. Now,” Domeric whispered. “Be good for your alpha.”

Theon choked as a finger slid in.

“Hmm.” Domeric pinched his clit. Theon’s teeth gnashed against the embroidered fabric to keep himself from moaning. The beads snapped inside his mouth. He cringed when a second finger was jabbed inside. 

“You’re too rough!”

“You’re a bit loose,” Domeric surmised. “And you’re not as responsive as before. Has something happened recently?”  

Tears filled Theon’s eyes; he tried his best not to let them fall loose. He was ruined if Domeric discovered his lost maidenhead and he was dead if the Bolton found out who took it.

“I am sorry!” Theon sobbed. “Lord Domeric, please forgive me!”

Domeric paused. “For what?” he asked.

“F-for, for being a-a whore!”

Domeric stopped his ministrations. Theon gasped. He was ready to come, and Domeric’s torture was making his head light and his vision dark. While Domeric mulled over the confession, Theon grinded against the bed sheets. Inwardly, he used the Bolton’s hesitance to his advantage. Theon swallowed his fear and continued his tall tale.

“In the south, the older omegas told me about using _objects_ to ward off temptation. I’ve only ever used my fingers but they insisted on trying something bigger. They said it would feel better.”

A frown marred Domeric’s face. His grip loosened, allowing Theon to roll on his back and face Domeric. “Most physical maidenheads are lost on horseback. They told me that no one would notice.” Theon’s face turned red—a side effect from holding his breath for so long. “I was overzealous,” he confessed, hoping the shame of his wantonness was conveyed over his fear of getting caught. Theon closed his eyes and waited for the verdict.

Domeric remained unreadable. He stared at Theon, searching his expression for signs, everything from a trembling lip to a twitch in the eye. Theon held his breath the entire time. After a long pause, Domeric spoke.

“It’s unfortunate you’ve resorted to such measures.”

Theon released his breath in relief. 

“You will stop engaging in such filth for the time being,” Domeric ordered. “Our wedding night is drawing near, and I want you taut. Too much zeal and you’ll lose your ability to please.” It was an old wives’ tale that self-pleasure would cause omegas to reject their alphas. He was surprised someone like Domeric believed it. 

Domeric retracted his fingers. He rubbed them in Theon’s hair to clean them, making the Greyjoy hitch his breath in disgust.  For a moment, Theon considered this round a victory. He fooled his betrothed, and this deception would be the first of many. His triumph was short-lived. As soon as Theon sat up, Domeric undid his pants.

“It would be improper to deflower you before a dowry has been settled, but there are other ways to treat your urges.”

Domeric pressed his cock against Theon’s lips. Theon was not foolish enough to excuse himself from the task. He was walking on thin ice, and the fish were prepared to suck his flesh clean if he fell through.

The omega opened his mouth and let the hardness slip inside. It filled his mouth and stretched his jaw. At the very least, Theon was aware his betrothed was well endowed. It proved less of a comfort when the lancer began to make short, jabbing thrusts into his throat. Theon was good—not too good unless Domeric expected foul play. When it came time for Domeric’s release, he shoved himself to the hilt, making Theon choke violently on his cock. Domeric grabbed his head and kept him still so that all the cum traveled down his throat and into his stomach. When he let go, Theon was heaving, but there was not a drop of cum out of place. Clear spittle hacked onto the floor.

“Very good,” Domeric noted. “ _Clean_ work. We’ll use our engagement to further your skills. For now, remember what I’ve told you.”

Theon rubbed his neck. When he groaned, his entire throat throbbed in pain.

“I’ve postponed the dowry negotiations until tomorrow afternoon. Tonight, you will dine with her privately. Inside your room.”

Theon closed his eyes shut. He’d rather die than see her again. “I don’t want to.” After a pause and muffled sob, he asked, “Please don’t make me.”

“I’m not making you; you want to,” Domeric replied. “A high dowry will ensure a successful beginning for us. You want to be a good wife, don’t you?”  

Theon whimpered and tried to retreat underneath the covers.

Domeric’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and grabbed Theon’s face. Though his grip was soft, the steel in his expression made Domeric look like a giant cradling a bug.

“Tomorrow morning, I expect Lady Asha’s full cooperation. More than that, I imagine that she will lend her full support to our union and nothing less. Do you understand?”

Whether it was the influence of the Starks or the blood of the Kraken that broke through, Theon did not care. His disguise fell through. He glared, fierce and fuming, at Domeric. As soon as it came, the expression melted into one of submission. The make-up came too late. Domeric had caught him.

And some part of Theon did not care.  

“Of course, Lord Domeric. Forgive my insolence," he said sweetly. 

Domeric’s pursed his lips. He let go of Theon and nodded his approval. When he departed the room, he clenched his fist in frustration. He swore to whip that cheek out of his bride before the wedding. There was no point in having a powerful spouse if he couldn’t control him.  

***

Before the dinner, two maids were brought in to help Theon tidy up. They looked at his dresses on the bed and asked if they were to enter his wardrobe.

“You can leave them in my trunk, I—” Theon’s tongue stopped working. He glanced over at the gowns. While the year had been eventful, the Starks did not play host to grandeur nor did they promote the participation of waste. The next time he'd be able to wear those dresses could be months or years from now.

He would be married by then.

“Leave them on the side. I will decide what to with them later.”

The girls obeyed. After the room was sufficiently scoured, Theon dressed in a pair of dress pants and a dark shirt. Simple but unable to draw any praise or ridicule. The maids told Theon that Lord Domeric insisted on the ensemble.

The Greyjoy sighed.

A knock was heard on the door, and when the maid was allowed in, she announced that Lady Asha was waiting outside.

Theon stiffened. He gathered up his courage to say: “Let her in." He could barely turn around when he heard Asha’s footsteps. He swore to himself that the past would not repeat himself. He would not allow his sister to get the best of him twice in one day.

Theon turned to the maids. “Leave us,” he ordered. Despite his apprehension towards Domeric, it felt good to see the Bolton staff heed his instructions. Unlike the Stark’s servants, who followed his commands in contempt, the retainers of the Dreadfort obeyed out of duty. Theon was their lord. His word was law, just below Lord Bolton and his heir.

The power was like a shot of poppy, and Theon latched onto the small comfort like a rope in a storm.  

When he turned to his sister, he was taken back. Asha seemed to have undergone a change in the last few hours. Theon was not naïve enough to call it humbleness, but his sister’s ferocity seemed subdued. She sat down at their prepared table. Two plates filled with turkey, potatoes, and carrots sat there, steaming. On their sides was a flask of wine and two cups. Asha poured one for herself and another for him.

Theon took a deep breath and sat down as well. While Asha helped herself to the meal, Theon could barely bring himself to nibble. After chewing the rest of his carrots, he dived in for the wine.

“You should eat more,” Asha remarked, the first thing she’s said all night.

Theon tensed. “I’m not hungry.”

Asha snorted. “Are you following one of those thinning whims stupid omegas get themselves into? Don’t bother.”

Theon gripped his fork. “I’m not hungry.” 

“Eat your food.”

“I don’t want to!” Theon snapped and tried to remember why he had to suffer through this caricature of hate.

Asha slammed her turkey leg onto the table. “You’ve always been a spoiled child.”

“What?”

Like Theon, Asha was weak to her impulses. She swallowed the entire wine glass in one gulp before pouring another for the future. “You were the youngest. You were the omega. And even as a child, you were pretty. Mother treated you like a fucking doll; spoiled you like a peach sitting in the sun.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is,” Asha growled. “It broke her when you were taken away. She cries every day, and when she’s lucid enough to remember who she is, she spends her time writing you letters.” Asha shook her head. “Then, after years of waiting for your return, she gets a fucking letter, saying that day will never come. You would rather be the whore —"

"Wife!" Theon corrected. 

"Whore," Asha repeated. "Of some nobleman than return home to your family! If she could see you now, she’d lock you in the tower with her. She’d never let you out of her sight. The Starks made you weak. The North stole you like a changeling, and now you’re one of them.” Asha slammed her fist on the table. “I could have made you strong.”

It was traveling back in time when Theon was a child without a voice. When men could take him away and no one would listen to his screams. He threw his fork on the floor. 

“I didn’t ask to be here!” Theon shouted, tears welling up in his eyes. “Did you forget that? Did you forget how I begged for help when they dragged me onto their ships? Did you forget how father held mother back? No one listened to me! No one cared! 'At least he’s just an omega,’ father said. Did you remember that?” 

Asha winced. Theon could feel the guilt resonated off her, and while the sensation was sweet, it was not enough to satisfy him. He wanted it to hurt. 

“It should have been you,” Theon hissed. Asha, for all her faults, was no coward. She looked him straight in the eye as Theon screamed his heart out. “You were the heir. But by some twist of fate, I was taken instead. And I’m glad I was,” Theon gloated when he saw a flicker of pain past through her eyes. “Give your insults against the Starks all you want, but those words are no better than the waves pounding on the rocks. Robb was more of a brother to me than ours ever were. You know that as well as I do.”

Asha clenched her fist. “Robb is the son of the man who kidnapped you. He is not your brother—” 

“Neither was ours! Do you know what they did to me?” Theon asked. His eyes clenched shut as the memories returned.

“Theon—”

“Robb  _never_ held me down and showed off my cunt to his friends,” Theon hissed. “He never let them put a stick inside me for a tin coin or strip me naked at the docks for a prank. He never offered to whore me out for my first heat and let sailors fondle my breasts for a bet!”  

 “Theon, that was a long time ago. I would never let that happen—”

“It doesn’t matter what you say,” Theon reminded. He wiped away the tears that sprung from those horrid times. “Because father gave enough acquiescence that nothing you say matters.”

Asha closed her eyes in disgust.

Theon looked down at his cold meal. “The Dreadfort is one of the more prosperous regions in the north. I’ll be well provided for. There is no raping and pillaging needed here.” Theon scoffed. "Omegas do well by being pretty, here."  

“That is not the iron way. It is in your blood, Theon; you cannot be rid of it with a ridiculous ceremony.”

Theon kept his resolve. “We will wed in front of a heart tree and not a drowned man. I will not burden you with giving me away. Robb or Lord Stark will be more than up for the task. At least, I will have one alpha who cares for me there.”

Silence filled the room. Theon was about to call for a maid to come in but Asha spoke. “You keep insisting that I do not care,” Asha spoke, frustration embedded in every word. “I would not be here if I did not care.”

Theon stared at her. 

Asha stood up. To his surprise, she walked over him and bent the knee. Theon gasped.

“I have never bent the knee to anyone in my entire life. I will do so today, for you. To get it inside your thick head that no matter how whorish your dress is or how stupid your choices are, you are my brother and I will never abandon you.” She sighed angrily, and Theon could tell she wished for more wine. “You were a terrible baby, now and before. You used to wake up the entire castle with your bawling. One night, you just wouldn’t stop. Screaming like a dying pig. I wanted to strangle you." Asha took in a sharp breath. "That night, I looked down at your crib, and you smiled at me. Didn’t cry for the entire night.” Asha reached out for his face, and unlike before, Theon allowed himself to be touch. She licked her chapped lips and turned away. “Send a raven before the ceremony and I will give you away. Whatever the fuck that means.” She went back to her seat. “And don’t worry about the dowry. We may not wear gold on our britches, but we are still high lords.”

“Lord Stark has offered his assistance,” Theon offered softly. Asha was no longer looking at him. “You can speak with him—”

“For fuck’s sake, Theon, I will not beg your kidnapper for aid,” Asha snapped. She poured out a third glass of wine. Theon considered calling for another flask. “At least you’ve had the sense to wed a man close to the sea.” Pride bubbled in Theon’s chest. While a small victory, he was glad someone acknowledged his cunning in selecting a mate. The Dreadfort was miles away from the Shivering Sea, but they owned a portion of the harbor.

When the matter was settled, the two returned to their meal. Despite the chill on his meat, Theon never felt more ravenous. His favorable mood made him less mindful of his surroundings. He did not notice Asha’s staring.

“You’re getting married,” she whispered; she sounded bemused and defeated at once.

“I am.”

She shook her head. “You’re too young. Fucking hell, you’re the same baby you were when you left.”

Theon swallowed. “I’m old here. I’ll be nineteen soon.”

“That’s because alphas here like their cunts stupid. Young and stupid,” Asha remarked. 

“Stop.” Theon could feel a migraine growing. He knew where this conversation was leading and when Asha spoke next, he was not disappointed.

“I don’t like him.”

Theon sighed. “He’s an acquired taste.”

“He’s a cunt.”

Theon choked on his potatoes. He pushed down the blockage with wine. “Don’t let him hear you,” he coughed out.

“Cunt,” Asha repeated. “A tight cunt who couldn’t take a pounding if a gnat fucked him.”

Theon couldn’t help it. He muffled his laughter with his sleeve, but Asha heard. For the first time since they’ve reunited, he saw her smile. She looked beautiful, like their mother.

“He talks like you’re already his. Came to me, with his pristine boots and silver buckles, called me ‘my lady’ and told me how fortunate he was to have been chosen—like he didn’t twist your arm to get your hand.”

Theon remembered the incident from earlier. He kept his mouth shut.

“There are always going to be alphas like that. No often how much I pray, there’s not enough water to drown them and not enough storms to strike them dead.”

“Alphas like what?”

“Alphas like our father.” Asha paused. “Alphas that make omegas cry.”

Theon tightened his grip on his cup. “But that’s the curse, isn’t it? Omegas end up like their sorry mothers, and then they marry  bastards like their fathers.” Theon did not have the strength to defend his betrothed. He finished the rest of his cup. “If only I was born an alpha.”

“If only.” Asha raised her cup. “But knowing you, you’d have been a bigger fucking cunt than you are now.”

***

When the servants came to take their plates, Asha took her leave. Her mood must have been on par with Theon, for the next morning, Domeric expressed his content.

“The servants informed me,” the spies, Theon translates, “That your sister was in a pleasant mood when she left your quarters last night. I am glad you were able to reconcile.”

“As am I. When will negotiations begin?”

“Soon. We are waiting for father to finish his morning inspection. While our meeting happens, I recommend you explore the castle. It is good for my future bride to understand his home.”

Theon furrowed his brow. “I won’t be able to attend?”

“No,” Domeric answered as if he was reciting common sense. “It doesn’t concern you.”

“It is _my_ dowry.”

“But it is not your say,” Domeric retorted. “You don’t even know your worth.”  

Theon’s hands balled up into fists. Domeric must have found the argument tedious because he turned his heel and walked away. “All of the Bolton retainers have been instructed to heed your commands. You can send for a guide if you like, or you can be alone—do not leave these walls.”

After the instruction, Domeric abandoned Theon in the halls. Theon snarled and marched into the courtyard. He decided that while walking off his frustration provided little relief, a trip to the kennel may provide comfort. The dogs of Winterfell loved him, and he was confident the hounds of the Dreadfort would be no different.

When he arrived, the kennelmaster welcomed Theon with a bow and introduced himself as Ben Bones. He showed him around the kennel. His daughter, an omega girl with long, dark hair, glared at him throughout his tour. A whine drew his attention to the left den.

“What is going on?”

“One of the bitches is giving birth. She finally hit the hard part, so we’ll see some pups soon.”

Theon perked up at the news. A puppy was exactly what he needed to cure his sick spirit.

“I want to see her.”

 "Bit of a rough sight for a highborn like yourself. Lots of blood. Dirty.”

Theon did not care. He walked ahead and saw the whimpering form of a large, muscular black-haired dog. He crouched down to check on her condition.

“Careful milord. That one’s Grey Jeyne. She’s a savage beast, I’ve seen her tear apart a hound for a bone.”

Theon stroked her tummy as she urged her pups free. She must have appreciated the gesture for she leaned into his hand.

“I believe she has other concerns.”

Ben cackled. “Right you are, milord.” He licked his lips as Theon grabbed the dog’s head and rested it on his lap. His breasts were on full display, bouncing every time he decided to bend over and pet the bitch.

When the pups started to crown, Theon was asked to move aside. He waited until each one was out, not caring that it took hours. Soon, a litter of pink pups was squirming on the sheets, seeking their mother’s warmth and milk. They were ugly things, blind, fat and wrinkled, but Theon loved all the same. He watched their mother lap onto their disgusting bodies and cleaned them up until there was not a lick of blood left. It was lovely. 

Life was simple for dogs.

While Grey Jeyne was preoccupied, the kennelmaster tried to win his favor by bringing him another hound. “Her name is Kyra. She’s one of her master’s favorites.” He leered when the beast latched onto Theon’s top and pulled it down with her claws. The view of Theon’s rose buds was the highlight of his service.

Theon laughed at the rambunctious creature. “She’s rather friendly.” The creature attacked his face with sloppy, wet licks which Theon took as kisses. “I'm surprised Domeric cares for these creatures. He strikes me as a man who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong,” the kennelmaster agreed. “But her master is his brother. Lord Bolton’s bastard.”

Theon froze. “Ramsay? Ramsay Snow?”

Ben nodded. “You’ve met?”

Theon tried to quell his heart and returned his attention to the lovelorn dog. “He was at my ceremony. We weren’t well acquainted,” Theon lied. “Is he around?”

From afar, Bones’ daughter dropped her holdings. Theon heard her curse. She must have been eavesdropping.

“Nay, his father sent him away. Must have picked the wrong whore again.” Ben cackled, “He’s a beast, that one. Loves the thrill of a good hunt and a solid blade. Never a dull moment with his presence. He even let me join him on a hunt once.” Bone's yellow teeth glowed in the darkness. “Made me feel like a green boy again. He even offered me a taste of his prize.”

The crudeness was cringe worthy.

Since Theon arrived, every second of his stay was filled with stories of Ramsay Snow, each more elaborate and gruesome than the one before. Rather than frighten him, the tales made him yearn for more. Theon wanted every morsel of news he could find out about the bastard.

“Do you know when he’s coming back? I mean, if he was important enough to bring to the ceremony, then surely we should get to know one another?”

The kennelmaster shrugged. “He’s a different breed, milord. One with a taste for omega flesh.” He stared at Theon’s form. “You should be grateful he is gone; he wouldn’t have left you alone. Pretty thing you are.” Pretty cunt you have, Bones mused.  

Theon bristled. The problem was that he was alone. Ramsay had not contacted him since that night. A part of him was fearful their affair was a ruse; a treacherous prank to humiliate his trueborn brother through the violation of his bride.

Whatever the cause for his distance, Theon sought answers. He thanked the kennelmaster for his time and marched back to his quarters. A bath was in order; he was drenched in wet fur and dog drool. Domeric would not appreciate the odor. He was not surprised to see that the sun was setting. The North reached nightfall quicker than the south and the Dreadfort was no exceptions. Domeric might be waiting in his room. He hoped negotiations went well; he rather wished to avoid being drowned in the bathtub. 

Once was enough.  

***

The Bolton men struck a hard bargain, but Asha was no less heavy with her punches. In the end, House Bolton would receive a substantial number of ships and Theon’s weight in iron. It was more than what any islander would ask for; Asha commented as such when they tried to increase the price.

“We can offer your brother more than what any islander can.”

Asha smiled and snorted, amused by the suggestion. “Yes, I’m aware of your wealth. Even in this cold tundra, there’s more gold in your vaults than several islands combine.” Asha shook her head. “That doesn’t make you a good husband. Just a rich one. There are good men in the islands. Men I’ve raided with. Men who would gladly give their lives for a bride like my brother. Men who would give their lives for me.”

Domeric did not falter. “Regardless, Theon has expressed his wishes to marry me. Would you take away his choice?” 

“Maybe.” Asha shrugged. “Maybe I’m giving him the opportunity to make better choices.”

Domeric narrowed his eyes.

“Enough,” Lord Bolton cut in. “Iron is an abundant resource within your lands. We can remove the request for gold in exchange for the highest quality of iron.”

Asha pursed her lips. It was reasonable. “Fine.” She crossed one leg over the other. “What’s next?”

“That was the end of the dowry negotiations. We should move onto the wedding preparations.”

Asha scoffed. “This is omega’s territory. Where is my brother anyways?”

“He wasn’t interested in attending,” Domeric answered.

“It’s his dowry. If I should suffer, so should he.”

“He believed the matter should be handled in accordance with tradition. Once our betrothal is settled, he will officially enter our house. Thus, it is a matter between us,” Domeric explained.

Asha rolled her eyes. “Right, that giving away bullshit you northerners peddle.” She sighed. “Carry on. How much is the wedding going to cost us?”

One of the problems with Theon marrying so soon was the funds involved. When he was born, the family planned on using Maron and Rodrik’s dowry payments to pay for Theon’s; when they died, the task was given to her. She never expected he would marry a mainlander.

Lord Bolton was relieved to inform the vile woman of the cost. “They will be married after Domeric’s nameday, which is a month from now. The ceremony itself will cost nothing. Our marriages require only a heart tree and prayers. We will take care of the feast for the wedding night. Our guests will be limited to a select few. This includes the Starks. You are welcomed, as is your father and mother.”

Asha scoffed at the idea. Her father would sooner drown himself for good before he allowed Lord Stark to sit at his table.   

“Fine,” Asha agreed. “But if we’re going to have a northern ceremony, I want the wedding feast to adhere to iron traditions.”

The Boltons shared a look. “What does that entail, Lady Asha?”

Lady Asha scoffed. “Take your britches out of your ass,” she grabbed the agreement and skimmed over it as she spoke. “I only have two requests. One, I want it done by the shore, overlooking the sea.”

“That can be arranged,” Lord Bolton agreed. “Though we cannot guarantee the weather will be fair.”

“I’ll risk it,” Asha said dryly. 

“What is the second condition?”

Lady Asha smirked. “For the bedding, six witnesses must walk the bride and groom to their bed. There will be no stripping or sacrificial transport. When it is time for consummation, a Drowned man must be in attendance. Watching your every move.”

Domeric glared at the woman. “Fine,” he told her. “I have no complaints.”

Asha, thankful for the matter to be over with, agreed. “Neither do I.” 

The alphas prepared their sigils and stamped their papers. Once completed, the maester finished up the last of the documents and tidied up the papers. “We will ship these documents to the Citadel in the morning.”

Asha nodded. “If you excuse me, I want to see my brother.” 

“Of course, Lady Asha.” Domeric nodded. “Do tell my bride that I look forward to our wedding day.”

Asha sneered. She stormed out of the room before she could hear the rest of his sentence. 

***

Asha never knocked in Pyke; Theon wondered why he expected such formality in Dreadfort. Asha barged in his quarters right as he was applying oil. The sight made her stop in her tracks.

“What is that smell?”

Theon sighed. “Lavender and honey.”

“Why are you putting that on your body? Are you a pastry?”

“It’s oil,” Theon explained. “It's to soften your skin. You should try it; you’re looking chafed.”

“That’s what work looks like,” Asha gritted out. “And after dealing with that ass, you should be kissing mine.”  

Theon rolled his eyes. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“Don’t start that again,” Asha warned.

Theon had the good sense to listen. He asked how the negotiations went.

“Poorly. I would rather eat a donkey’s anus than go through that again,” Asha looked through his things for some wine or ale. She found nothing and groaned. “But at least the matter is settled. You’ll be married in a month.”  

“Thank you,” Theon told her. He meant it as well. “I would have joined you if I could.”

“What stopped you?” Asha mumbled. “Could have used your pretty breasts when he tried to rob me.”

“Domeric said it was not an omega’s place.” The argument happened long enough ago that the bite was lost.

Asha stopped moving. “What?”

Theon shrugged. “I have some gift wine. It’s spiced but I think you’ll like it.”

“Theon,” Asha snapped. Her voice was low as if she was trailing on a line and any mistakes could have her drowning in a pit of rage. “It wasn’t your decision to not be there?”

Theon shook his head. “Domeric said I would add nothing to the negotiations. He was right. I don’t even know what your limit was, or Lord Stark’s for that matter. I would have been dead weight.”

Asha marched over to him and grabbed his shoulders. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words died on her lips. She shook and it was the most frightened he’d ever seen her. Then, slowly, she loosened her grip, and let him go.

“When are you returning to Winterfell?” She asked. 

“At the end of the week." If he remembered correctly. "I’ll be staying with the Starks until the wedding. If I overstay my welcome here, no one would believe I lost my maidenhood on our wedding night.” Theon shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

Asha pretended to be nonchalant about the matter. “You’ve been speaking so highly of the Starks that I’ve considered coming with you. Meet this Robb boy. See how he fares with me.”

Theon laughed. “You’d make him shit his pants.”

“All the better for me to come.”

Theon laughed again. It was strange, to smile so much. He wasn’t ever this jovial when they were children. He wondered if it was because they’ve grown up; if time was all that was needed for them to like each other. “I’ll send a raven,” he promised. He turned around and found a half empty bottle of ale whose origins were unknown. He poured her a glass regardless. 

After he filled the cup, Asha grabbed it but did not drink. She stared at him. “The Starks were good to you, weren’t they?”

Theon nodded. “I’ve been fortunate.”

“What about Domeric? Does he treat you well?”

Then tightened his lip but he didn’t falter. He'd gone too far to give everything up now. “He has the means to provide me everything I want.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Theon smiled despite his nerves. Asha set down her glass. She cradled his cheek again; she was obsessed with the gesture.

“If…” Asha swallowed. “If that man ever hurts you, you come back to us. To me. Or hell, even the Starks, if they’ll take you. But if they don’t, you come back to Pyke.”

Theon scoffed. “Father would love that.”

"I don't give a fuck what he wants!" 

Theon jumped.

Asha took a deep breath. “Just promise me. I don’t care if it’s tomorrow or ten years down the road. If he lays a hand on you, you tell me. I’ll rip out his heart and deliver it to the Drowned God.”

Her threat was the sweetest declaration of love he had ever heard from her or anybody else. He hugged her. Though she was slow to return the gesture, as soon as her arms were around him, it felt like she would never let him go.

***

While matters settled on a grave of flayed men, other cemeteries were less discreet about their affairs. Robb never doubted that Jon was his reason to see the sun the next day, but watching the steam of the hot springs hide him brought out a sense of urgency. He wanted to hunt, fuck, and claim. Before Jon could utter a greeting, Robb grabbed Jon and pushed him against the wall.

Robb was rock hard. Everything became numb except for the senses devoted to Jon’. His touch was obsessed with Jon’s hot flesh. His eyes locked on Jon’s flushed face. His nose inhaled in Jon’s scent. Jon, Jon, Jon.

“Why are you wearing still wearing your dress?” Robb growled.  

Jon smiled. “No one was here to take it off me.”

The Snow child squealed when Robb ripped open his top to reveal his flat chest. He turned him around so that his nipples pressed against the wall. Robb removed his skirt in haste. The ground piled up with shreds of fabric. Jon’s moans could be heard from the hallway but neither of them cared. All Robb cared about was removing those awful clothes and getting balls deep inside his lover.

He parted Jon’s ass and stuck three fingers inside his already wet hole. Robb could have come again. Jon was soaking, more so than at any point in their journey.

“You're so fucking ripe for it,” Robb growled.

Jon could feel slick running down the backs of his legs. While his slutty hole twitched for Robb’s cock, his cunt ached and clenched around an imaginary knot. His heart was pounding. He was panting like a bitch in heat.

Jon froze. 

No, he thought. It's too early.

“Robb, we have to go.”

The last of lucidity was used on this one request. He couldn’t stop what was happening and he didn’t want to. All he wanted was a big, thick cock stuffing his cunt until he broke.

“What?” Robb breathed out.

Good, Jon thought as the wave got closer. Robb could still speak.

“We need to get back to my room.” 

“Fuck,” Robb swore. “Just let me knot you here first.”

“No, if you…if you knot me now, we won’t be able to...” Jon moaned. He tightened his thighs together to keep himself from coming. Robb’s fingers were still curled up inside him. “Let’s go to…my room…I’m…”

Jon bit his lip so hard it hurt. His back was bouncing on Robb’s fingers until he couldn’t take it any longer. He elbowed Robb off him. Robb made a beastly noise but Jon kissed him before he could retaliate. When they parted, Jon continued to suck on Robb’s neck. In between kisses, Jon spoke:

“If we get to my bedroom…ah…we can…you can knot me before anyone notices something amidst. I could be yours this time. It’ll be…an accident…no one could blame us.”

Robb growled. He gripped his lover so hard, it left bruises. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Robb,” Jon moaned. “I'm in heat.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lost track of time, thought Friday was Thursday, realized I had less than two days to write this chapter. Finished 13,000 words in three days. I actually had to withhold out several plot points because I was too tired to write them. I am putting them to the next chapter.  
> So yes, next chapter will include: motherfucking heat sex and more Asha and Theon because it's really fun to write Asha. It's a smut-based chapter in comparison to this one.


	19. Chapter 19

There were some books that all newly rutted alphas pined after in their maesters' library. These scrolls, while educational in form, were filled with torrid passages relating to their founder’s fertility. In the Reach, they were blessed with tales of Garth the Gardener’s prowess; how omegas were would line up in a row with naked cunts, ready to be plowed and seeded with the hero’s thick tool. There were similar stories of Lann the Clever, founder of the Lannister name. He used his wits to sneak into Casterly Rock and have his way with the lord’s children in their sleep. Nine months later, the omegas gave birth to golden-haired babes while insisting they had no carnal knowledge of an alpha.

As a boy of the North, Robb Stark preferred a passage from the _Winter's Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell_ , a book written by Maester Childer about House Stark, the one-time Kings of Winter. It contained a ballad about how Brandon the Builder sought the aid of the children of the forest to raise the Wall. The children agreed to send him an envoy to test his resolve. Brandon waited in the woods with his sword in hand, predicting a battle with a giant or a tumble with a wolf. Instead, his ears were enchanted to hear the melody of the bells and birds. Brandon was said to have followed the song of a raven to a weirwood and there, he came across the omega offspring of a child and a human. The boy was smothering in his heat, washing himself with a cloth dipped in the black springs. When he heard Brandon come forth, the nameless nymph was spooked. He blended in with the wind and wraiths. He hid behind the sentinels and oaks, climbed onto the ironwoods and ash, and dashed between the elms and soldier pines. Brandon the Builder found him each time, pushed him to the ground and stuck his fingers into his cunt and tongue in his throat, but the child was clever and slippery as an eel. The great architect could never get ahold of him long enough to sink his cock inside. For countless, hours, the game continued until Bran the Builder, out of frustration, grabbed his sword and threatened mutilation against the heart tree if he continued to be denied. Pious and pure, the boy submitted. Brandon fondled the nymph to his heart’s content. They fucked for five days, feeding off chestnuts and black water. When they parted, Brandon was given the support he beseeched from the children of the forest, but the boy disappeared. Brandon was haunted by the omega's ghost; in his dreams and waking day, he saw visions of him and his swollen belly, having been fucked full with Brandon’s seed. Bran became obsessed with finding him. One night, the omega swore only to return when Brandon had built him a castle. Brandon worked tirelessly for months, having vowed to never shut his eyes until the omega was back in his arms. When the fortress was finished, Brandon heard the cry of a babe in the throne room. There was his queen and in his arms was Brandon’s first born son. Brandon took the baby into his embrace, cradled him as the squirming bundle of joy opened his bright green eyes—so much like his mother's—and asked him for his name.

"Brandon," the omega sang, with the sound of bells lingering on every word. "I named him after a great man.”

***

The door was still open when Jon lost to his instincts. Seconds before the lock turned, he was nothing more than an omega needing to be bred. Robb's rut was creeping upon him as well; the alpha in him urged a haven before any action could be performed—one where no one could interrupt or stake their claim on his omega while either was vulnerable. Robb barricaded the door with his desk and dresser and Jon's wardrobe as well, moving the furniture with more strength than he ever had in his entire life. Jon was whimpering on the bed, ripping off his dress without a thought to Robb’s efforts. They had just come out of the baths, so Jon wore only a thin robe. The Stark heir wasn't even sure if Jon knew where he was; all Jon could think about was getting his cunt wrapped around a thick knot and getting fucked until his body swelled with babes. He was a sight; lost in his heat and his scent was dripping with sex.

“Robb,” Jon moaned. His voice was guttered and wrecked with arousal. He humped the sheets and used his fingers to stuff his pussy while he waited for his lover.

Robb tore off the threads of his clothes to take them off. He stalked forward; the closer he got, the more excited Jon was. He could smell Robb's rut in his sweat, and the scent made his mouth water.

“Please, Robb, please I need you—”

"Fuck," Robb swore. He climbed onto the bed and pushed Jon down on the sheets where the boy eagerly spread his legs. Jon took out his fingers and the sound squelching slick echoed in the room. He used his hands to spread the lips apart. Jon's cunt gaped beautifully for him. He was wet as a well, leaking all over the sheets and trying to clench down on an absent knot. Jon whimpered. He pulled his pussy apart to stick his fingers deeper inside while he stretched.

"I'm going to fuck you as you deserve," Robb promised as he gripped his cock and sunk into Jon's cunt. Jon's eyes became blank and hooded with pleasure, indicating his final descent into a full-blown heat. Robb was not far off. This was his first time breeding with an omega in heat and it was his little brother. He was going to ruin Jon. The thought of defiling the person he'd sworn to protect made him harder than usual. He could imagine Jon's suitors coming with hopes of seduction, not knowing that Jon's womb was already fucked full.

Robb could not wait for Jon to become accustomed to his cock in a rut. His fingers dug into Jon's hips and he slammed inside. The bed grunted from the force and threatened to fall apart while he spent his time viciously fucking into the omega underneath him. The sensation was delicious. As the name implied, omegas’ insides were hotter in heat but they were creamier too with their tight, spongey cunts desperate to get churned and pounded. Above all, the thing that drove Robb mad was the wantonness. An omega in heat was desperate for a knot and would do anything to get one. There were cases of princes and princesses wandering into taverns, pretending to be whores just to get an alpha to knot their throats and untouched virgins as young as twelve sneaking into their father's rooms.

The room thundered with the slapping of skin against skin, and the bed squeaked like mice caught in a wolf’s mouth. Robb bared his teeth in a snarl as his knot started to bulge into Jon’s cunt. The swollen ball popped in and out, pulling sharp yelps out of Jon’s lips. Robb slammed deep and rutted roughly into Jon’s cunt, rubbing his insides raw. The knot eventually sunk all the way in and engorged enough to tie them together.

Jon gasped. He came at a moment's notice while Robb's orgasm rushed through his cock and into Jon’s bruised cunt. He coated Jon's channel with big spurts of cum. Robb could feel how desperately Jon clamped onto him, shuddering and wailing as his second orgasm overcame his body.

Robb protectively slumped over Jon's body as he caught his breath. With any rut, each orgasm gave the alpha another peek of sensibility. The reason left as quick as it came as Jon's muscles resurged with strength and started to milk his fading knot greedily.

Having lost the ability to speak, Robb grunted. He let his cock nestle into Jon’s soaked cunt. Jon didn’t respond well to the inactivity. He sobbed underneath him, urging Robb to continue.

Robb waited until his knot was small enough to break free before slipping out, cum and slick following his trail. Jon whined, high-pitched and meek. He rolled Jon over and maneuvered him to the standard mating position for omegas. It was understandable for an alpha to desire a traditional mount. Jon raised his big, bulbous ass and pressed his face against the sheets. He spread his knees far apart and arched his back in offering.

In a moment of sentimentality or plain, beast-like possession, Robb ran his hands over Jon's limp form, worshipping the flawless, milky skin while Jon laid there submissively. He bent down to kiss Jon's neck but without thinking, his teeth clung onto his skin. Jon wailed, but he didn't fight it. He rocked his hips against Robb’s cock, cradling Robb’s growing hardness in between his cheeks. Robb gripped one of Jon’s butt cheeks in each hand and spread them apart to get a good look at Jon’s pink, puckering hole. He leaned in and gave the glistening a good, long lick before sticking his tongue in and eating his brother out. He was starving and wanted to gulch down the honey sweet ravine of his brother. Jon gushed all over Robb's face, and it wasn’t long before the eldest Stark child’s cock became full again. Robb removed his mouth and positioned his cock against Jon’s hole.

Mine, he thought as the rut blurred his vision. _Mine_ , he whispered and over again as his control dimmed.

 _Mine_.

***

Sex lingered on the stones of Winterfell like moss in the cracks; present but unseen. No one could locate the origin, nor could they determine the smell. The servants made small talk of it before dinner, claiming a faint aroma of flowering snow buds and ripened strawberries and wondered if Gage’s gardens were particularly lush that evening. Ned was compelled by his lover’s scent; he picked up a dress Howland wore when they were teenagers and sat down on his bed with his nose buried in the silk. After a few more exhales, his suspicion overshadowed his longing. His hand clutched onto an unseen object covered in fabric. He sought answers that no human could answer so he settled for theories instead.

Ned visited Maester Luwin after dinner. The man diligently minded his scrolls, coming up with plans for the lessons missed and working on the tasks Ned requested. Ned was mindful. He knocked on the door and asked for pardon. Luwin welcomed him kindly.

“What ails you tonight, Lord Stark?” Luwin asked.

Ned was never a man for frivolities. “I need you to bring out the maps.”

Luwin frowned but obeyed. “What of?”

“One of the North and one of Westeros.” Ned paused before explaining. “Howland was not at the Neck when Jon arrived. I suspect he was elsewhere.”

“That tends to be the case when someone is not present.” Luwin tutted Ned for his blatancy. He arranged his paperweights to keep the map of the North spread.

Ned sighed. He walked over to Luwin’s side and waited for the man to unroll Westeros’ guide. When he was done, Ned voiced his concerns, “When we last spoke, Howland’s behavior was disconcerting.” That was a lie; Ned corrected himself as to not offend Luwin’s intelligence. “His statements bordered treason. If I know Howland, he wouldn’t have said anything if he hadn’t already set the pieces in motions.”

“Forgiveness over permission is a policy Lord Reed is fond of.” Luwin shook his head. “Have you spoken with him since then?"

"I've sent a raven, but he would never admit to anything unless it were too late to turn back.”  Ned grabbed a miniature horse and placed it on the northern map, right on top of the Neck. “According to Jon, Howland was seen traveling north.” He moved the horse towards Moat Cailin. “Howland knows the stronghold better than anyone. It is a deathtrap, but places of peril happen to fall under Howland’s expertise. He would have no problem staying there unharmed, and using it as a base for his plots.” Ned moved upward and reached the White Harbor. “After the Starks, House Manderly is notorious for its continued negotiations with the Neck. He could have provided Howland with horses and gold and allowed him to access anywhere from his Harbor to a clandestine road to the south. The possibilities are endless.”  
Luwin nodded. His fingers lingered over the White Harbor. “Why are the Manderlys so accommodating?”

Ned hesitated. “Howland told me his wife was from the Neck.”

“Ah,” Luwin acknowledged. Then, he took a few knights from his box of toys and laid them at Ned’s side. “How many houses have the crannogmen infiltrated, based on your knowledge?”

Ned hesitated. He took a few pieces and laid them on several unmarked spots in each kingdom. “Quite a few—but Howland has never revealed a number. I know of Lord Manderly’s union because of his frequent dealings with Howland.” Ned did not mention the jealous row that occurred when he suspected infidelity. Howland put a stop to those wicked thoughts but not before laughing at his incredulity.

“You are everything to me,” Howland had sworn with more devotion than a septon.  

“Hmm..." Luwin grabbed more pieces and placed them near capitols Ned was hesitant to add allies in, namely, King's Landing. "I do not know Howland as well as you, but I know how someone of his caliber acts. I know that when they consider severing themselves from the body, they’re not likely to do so without the help of an ax or fire. He’ll need allies and those bound by blood make the best ones.” Luwin waited for his lord's response. After a heavy silence, Ned put a piece inside every kingdom, from Dorne to the Riverlands. He sat down on a nearby chair and sunk his head into his hands.

“Blood and gods,” Ned whispered hatefully. Luwin raised an eyebrow. Ned unwrapped the fabric he kept hidden and revealed a golden collar. “The maids found this in our room—it had slipped underneath the dresser. They suspected it was a gift from me to Howland that he had forgotten.”

Ned handed it off to Luwin who observed it with a sigh. “It’s a courtship gift.” He placed it on the table and sat across from Ned. “Do you know who he received it from?”

“According to my brother, Howland has no intention of marrying after their separation. But I know him well enough not to underestimate his resolve. If he wants a war, he might do anything to ensure his victory.”

“But would he betray you?”

“I would not blame him if he did,” Ned answered. “I have betrayed him in a hundred worse ways.”

“You have done so out of duty, not pleasure. Your dealings have never been anything but a sacrifice.”

“Yes, but sacrifices should be done in solitude; all of mine were at the price of his happiness. I have taken his child from him; I have given up our life together.” Ned sighed. He glanced over at the collar. “Tell me I do not deserve punishment for what I’ve done.” 

“You do not.” Luwin took the cloth out of Ned’s hands and proceeded to wrap the jewelry. “You are a good man. You have spent more years on this earth serving the realm over living in it. If you are to be a martyr than Lord Reed is your rapture. He is the gift the gods have given you for your faith. You are allowed to be selfish, if only with him.” Luwin tossed the golden trinket aside like a rock in the river.

Ned chuckled. "You almost sound like a holy man."

"I am a pragmatic one," Maester Luwin answered. "I know that when honorable men are at the edge of a cliff, they will consider jumping to spare themselves the push."

"Then, what do you propose I do? To settle his spite and my suspicion?”

“Speak with Lord Reed.”

“What if he refuses to answer the raven?”  
“Then do not send one. A flock would not be enough to carry the weight of your words,” Luwin explained. “If Jon’s presence is any proof, it is that you’ve always been more persuasive in person.”

“I cannot leave Winterfell without reason,” Ned protested.

“It would do the North no good to have a lord with sullied thoughts. Let that be your reason.” Luwin returned the present. "Sometimes, a piece of jewelry is molten metal, and a trip north is a peaceful excursion. You do not find fact with theories; you find them with tests. You ask questions.”

“Questions rarely receive answers when Howland is involved.” A small smile appeared on Ned’s face regardless. Despite Ned’s reluctance, relief was present. He had been wrong before; perhaps Luwin was right, and he was reading too much into a silly necklace.  

“But…” Luwin began. “If you happen to be concerned with courtships, perhaps it is time to chase after husbands and wives.”

Ned raised an eyebrow. His stomach dropped when Luwin clarified his meaning. “The journey south was a momentous occasion for your children. We’ve received more letters for fostering and courtships in the past week than we have in years. Lady Stark wants to begin discussing offers.”

The discussion is as appetizing as cow piss, but he finds himself forced to swallow. Ned admitted that went to great lengths to avoid the conversation, but Luwin was no longer giving him a choice.

“Robb is uninterested in marriage,” Ned declared. “And he is past the age of fostering.”

“I agree. Robb is a child of Winterfell, and any involvements with other lords would appear to be favoritism.” Luwin got up from his seat to fetch a pitcher of water. “But I was not referring to Robb.”

Luwin poured Lord Stark a glass before giving one to himself. Ned noted that his movements were slow. He was an aging man with a certain delicateness that omegas were known for. When he was younger, he asked the man why he never married. Luwin chuckled and said that his time was not the best for poor omegas with a mind. It was either the Citadel or the Silent Sisters. 

The Lord of Winterfell sipped his water. “The others are too young. Sansa has at least a year before she enters her heat.” Though he said that, he revealed that Lord Arryn referenced her in one of his letters. He hoped the information would be enough to divert Luwin’s attentions. “Robert has always dreamed of unifying our bloodlines. Sansa and Prince Joffrey are the same age; I’m sure Lady Stark would not oppose.”

“Few mothers would object to their daughters becoming queen,” Luwin agreed. He glanced over King’s Landing on his map. “Is Sansa the only one he’s spoken about?”

“All of our children have been mentioned in the passing.”

“Even Jon?”

Ned’s jaw tightened. “Jon is none of their concern.”

“Because he is illegitimate or because you refuse to allow others to acknowledge him?” Luwin sighed. “What would happen if King Robert comes to the North and sets his eyes upon him? Listens to him laugh and hears the past haunting him? What would you do then?”  
“That will never happen. Jon is my natural born son; there is no reason for him to be in the presence of a king.”

“Lord Stark, I would keep silent on this, but even you must see—"

“Jon has been through enough—”

“— _that he looks like her_ ,” Luwin stressed. Silence fell upon the room and suffocated Ned with its weight. “He looks like Lyanna. He has her eyes and sometimes, I see a bit of her soul in him.”

“He has _my eyes_. He is my son, and the son of the man I love,” Ned defended.

“You told me that Lyanna died with her son,” Luwin reminded him. “And yet we only buried one body. Where is the child, Ned?”

“You were there when Jon was born. You delivered him to this world. You know he is my son.”

Luwin clutched onto a link around his neck and stared his lord straight in the eye as he told him, "Lord Stark, I am old, but I am not senile. I know Howland took the child and I know you know where he is. You would never let an unmarried Stark leave our crypts, leave _Winterfell_. There is a part of Lyanna in your son.” Luwin’s solemnity was matched only by his fear. “And if my suspicions are correct, there is a dragon in there as well.”

Ned turned away in shame. He would never forget the moment he found Lyanna; dying in a pool of blood, alone except for a nursemaid who could provide no comfort, who was in service to the man who betrayed her. He remembered how she begged Howland to save her child, the stillborn lying on the bedsheets like a stone covered in flesh.

Ned lost his sister to a dragon; he would not lose his son to a stag.

Luwin retreated a few steps behind the truth. “I see their resemblance, and so will others. If Robert’s eyes draw upon him, what will you do?”

“They will never meet,” Ned swore. "Some lords live their lifetimes without ever facing a king. A bastard should not be an issue.”

“He is not _a bastard_ ; he is _your bastard_ ,” Luwin reminded. “Jon is as well-known as any of your children, perhaps even more so. I have requests asking for his portraits; some are willing to pay the fee to have his image in their homes." 

Ned growled. “Those portraits aren’t for courting.”

Luwin told him he was missing the point. “You were lucky; Lord Arryn warned us that the king was not attending the tourney this year. You may not be so lucky the next year.”

“Robb has gotten his fill of tourneys. He won’t be traveling south for a while. He said so as much. Wherever he goes, so does Jon.”

Luwin almost groaned in frustration. “There will always be more events; more chances for Robert to catch a glimpse of him. Stories and songs spread like wildfire. People know your son is beautiful, they will want to look, and when they do, they will want to _touch_.”

Ned pounded his fist on the table. The horses scattered across the map. “No one is laying a hand on Jon!”

Luwin swallowed. With a heavy heart, he made a suggestion that could have cost him his life if he were given another lord. “And what if Jon wanted them to?”

Bile hardened and coiled inside Ned’s throat. Luwin had seen the lord speechless many times, but never as discomfort. " _Jon is a child_.” Ned gritted his teeth.

“Children do not stay children forever. He is fourteen. Jon may be your babe, but he is an omega who has bloomed. He has desires…”

“He is a child!” Ned stood up with fire coursing through his veins. “He desires nothing more than the love of family. He will not be corrupted under my watch.”   
“But there will be a time when you will not be watching him. It is all the more reason to consider marriage.” Luwin’s voice was gentle. “If you want Jon to protected, assign him a protector. Alphas tend to respect territory.”

“My son is not a piece of land,” Ned growled.

Luwin nodded and with a sad smile, he told Ned. “Lord Stark, with all due respect. You can protect him for as long as you live and breathe—but the fact that he requires your protection is telling in itself.” He rested his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Take this from an old omega. I, too, had a mother and father who loved me. They scurried for coins every night to have enough to send me to the Citadel because it would _protect_ me,” Luwin tugged at his chain. “I have never been abused by an alpha, but I have never fallen in love with one either. The only children I have ever cherished carried the Stark name; the only home I have ever known is yours and not my own.”

Luwin stroked his lord's cheek as a mother would. The man was both a mother and a father to him growing up, and a valued advisor when he became a lord—he still was; his plea was sharper than expected; Ned could feel the cutting against his chest, forming thinly veiled slices in his heart.

“I would like rest. It has been a long day.”

The maester waited for something unsaid or heard before nodding. “Of course, my lord. Would you like some poppy for sleep?”

“No.” Ned shook his head. “I would prefer something stronger.”

Not for the first time today, Luwin displayed hesitance. He was never quick to disobey his lord, but he never relished in discourse, either. “My lord, if you are suggesting…”  
“I am.”

“Lord Reed will not be pleased.”   
“Neither am I,” Ned told him. “I will consider a trip to the Neck, but for now, I need to see him.” He reached out his hand. With grave reluctance, Maester Luwin turned his back on his lord. He took out a key and unlocked a safe where he kept some of his most valuable herbs and spices and brought out a jar filled with golden moss. From his drawer, he took out a pair of pincers and a slab of glass. He latched onto the smallest amount of moss but was halted by Ned.

"A little more," Ned ordered; his voice was soft as a wolf's rumbling throat and just as menacing.

Luwin complied. The amount was not indecent but would ensure his lord the finest dreams in all the lands. Ned returned to his room alone. His tea was waiting on his night table, and with great shame, he added in the golden moss and waited for his drink to glow green. When it did, Ned took a deep breath and prayed to the gods to forgive his weakness. He was only a man. 

***

“Would you like to dance, my love?”

Howland twirled on the tables while the bodies of men broken on ale and wine and battle covered the ground. Ned had forbidden Howland from drinking with the rest of the warriors—his poor tolerance was the fertilizer for trouble and Ned had no intentions of letting the weeds of avarice grow. The war was over; he was tired of fighting. The Greyjoy Rebellion had been snuffed, and they had won, as everyone knew they would. The king had a belly full of wine to show for it, and a seaside kingdom was crawling on snapped fingers and broken knees. For his victories, Ned was given a child, put to sleep by his lover’s spell because the crying became unbearable.

Almost all the men had either drunk themselves to a stupor or returned to their cabins or tents; they were desperate to wake up and find themselves on the road home. When Ned deemed it safe enough, he had allowed Howland a cup which turned into two and then morphed into three. Ned could not feel angry or ashamed; Howland looked beautiful when he was dancing. He laughed freely. When Howland got dizzy from another spin, the crannogman missed a step and landed into Ned’s arms. The two fell to the floor and erupted into giggles. They were younger then; they were happier.

Lord Stark watched the scene with diluted eyes and pleasure—intense, overwhelming pleasure that made his meat tender and turned his muscles into jam. He remembered being that young man at the table, watching his lover’s cheeks redden with spirits and kissing the blush away. He remembered biting his nape and howling like a dog as he did so, how Howland spun his legs around his waist and how he laid upon the table like an offering. Ned remembered being in love; love was what made the nostalgia feel like bliss. He was not a romantic man, but the memory turned him into poetic, fantastical, whimsical beast of joy and wonder. The reality was far away, and all that mattered was that he was with Howland again.

“What are you doing, Ned?” Ned heard a voice from behind ask. He turned around and saw Howland; the Howland of his present, grave and gaunt but so beautiful. The Lord of the Neck reached out and cradled his lover’s cheek. “You’re only supposed to take the moss during my heat. I’ve warned you. Using it too often can cause holes in your head—”

Ned pressed his hand on top of Howland’s. His touch was warm. “I missed you,” he confessed. Ned did not wait for Howland to respond. He pushed his true wife against the wall of their dream and ravished his lips. Howland opened his mouth and wrapped his hands around his neck. When they parted, Howland was too breathless to speak. The sight of his glassy eyes and red cheeks riled up the beast inside. Ned never controlled himself in a fantasy. He kissed Howland again and again, but nothing satisfied him. Ned moved his lips downwards, caressing every part of Howland's skin with his mouth. “You lied to me,” Ned breathed out, and when he said those words out loud, he realized he was not angry. He was scared. “You did not have business in the Neck. You refused my offer to further your agenda—you placed our time together second to your schemes.”  Within his dream, the hypocrisy tasted like peppers, and it was bitter, and it burned, but Ned swallowed the spice by the pound.

Howland’s face contorted with pain. “Ned…”

“I don’t care,” Ned revealed with a heavy breath. “Tell me you love me and all is forgotten. Tell me whatever you have planned, you would never put us in peril. You would never put our son in danger.”

Howland reached out for Ned until they were a nose apart. “Everything I have done; I have done for us. Everything I do is for us.” Tears welled up in Howland’s eyes, but unlike his lover, he maintained his control. “Ned, I refuse to live without you any longer.” Howland clutched onto Ned’s face and kissed him once more. “For years I have cried and bled for the gods. It is time they paid their dues to me.”

Howland turned away from Ned and admired their past with determination as fierce as dragons. He’d seen the look on his face before, and each time resulted in more causalities than the next. Ned should have stopped him. Instead, he stood beside Howland and indulged in the spectacle in front of him. Pleasure coursed through his veins as his younger self lifted Howland on top of the table and slipped his head underneath Howland’s skirt.

Though they could not see a thing, the pleasure resurfaced inside Ned and Howland’s as if they were performing the act all over again. Howland whimpered as Ned wrapped his arms around him and let his lover remove his top. Howland’s chest was bare in seconds.   

On the table, the past Ned had his head between Howland's legs and his mouth sucked on his clit. Howland’s hips jolted up as the suction released a shock throughout his body. Ned slurped up the cum gushing out of him. Howland made loud, mewing cries as Ned continued to stroke his insides with his tongue. Howland tightened his thighs around Ned’s face and started grinding against Ned’s mouth. His cunt was throbbing.

“Ah!” The younger Howland moaned. He could not stand the heat. He tore open his blouse and massaged his nipples while Ned ate his cunt.  

In the present, Howland writhed underneath Ned’s thorough hands. The Lord of Winterfell had two coarse fingers lodged inside Howland’s cunt while his other hand was groping his barely present chest. When the stirring of a release drew near for both Howlands, a groan erupted from the sidelines.

“Fucking hells,” the golden hair boy muttered. Jaime Lannister stood on the sidelines. Ned narrowed his eyes as the younger man palmed his trousers in the shadows, watching the scene in the darkness.

Despite his arousal, Howland laughed at the mortified expression on his lover’s face. He placed his hand on Ned’s and pushed his fingers further up his cunt. “Don’t be embarrassed. This is all in the past. He cannot see us.”

“He did see us,” Ned growled.

“Yes, he did,” Howland giggled. “But he was not the only one.”  

Before Ned could ask him what he meat, the ripples of an upcoming orgasm surged inside both of them. The younger Howland’s body began to shake. He clutched onto his lover’s hair as he came, dripping honey all over Ned’s chapped mouth as he did so. When Ned left his lover’s skirts, Howland was not yet satisfied. He pulled the father of his child into a kiss before pushing him away with a playful twinkle in his eyes.

The real Howland Reed sunk into Ned’s arms in pleasure. He leaned in and kissed Ned before murmuring if he remembered what happened next.

Ned did not have to recall. At once, Howland got on his coltish legs, staggering towards King Baratheon and grabbed his crown.

“Howland!” Ned hissed. “What are you doing?”

Howland did not listen. He skipped over to Ned and dropped the band of gold onto the Northern lord’s head. Before Ned could remove it, Howland dragged him outside the room. “I am going to fuck a king tonight. A true king. In a king’s bed.” Howland was still drunk and had every intention of taking advantage of his inebriation to convince Ned to do the most horrible things to him. The current Ned turned red with shame for fucking in the sheets his closest friend would later sleep on.

With the two lords out of the room, Ned sought a different vision. Howland stopped him, forcing the memory to stay intact. “Did I say the show was over? You should watch this one.”

Ser Jaime Lannister walked out of the shadows. Ned narrowed his eyes at the Kingslayer, but Howland's expression was far more amused. He revealed that the Lannister had watched them the entire time. “His eyes never left us. Such a poor boy,” Howland teased. “His cock was getting harder with every thrust yet he never touched his bare cock once.”

“What is the point in this, Howland?”

"‘Everything is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.’” Howland hummed. "Power is in our allies."

"Is this about your plans?" Ned asked. "Howland, whatever you have planned is madness."

"You doubt me," Howland pointed out, but he was not angry. "But I don't blame you. I want to show you how easy it is to gain power.”

The two of them turned their attention to the throbbing Lannister.

 

With no small amount of shame, Jaime surveyed the room for onlookers before opening the laces of his trousers. His cock was hard, and while he intended to leave the rooms for a good, long wank, the heaviness in his balls soon became unbearable. His right hand was weighing his cock when he was interrupted.  

“Did you have fun watching them?” The other presence asked, delight tickling his tone. For the first time in a long time, Jaime jumped. His face was dusted with pink as he turned towards the voice.

Ned’s eyes widened.

Benjen Stark clutched onto his glass of wine. He had more tolerance than his wife or at least had the hindsight to sip the goblet rather than swallow the contents whole. Jaime noticed his resemblance to his older brother immediately. They had the same sharp features and jawline but contrasted through Benjen’s blue eyes.

Despite being a teenager, Benjen was already the father of two. He fought well, not only for a boy his age but as a brother in arms. Jaime remembered being impressed by his skill. They fought several battles together but never spoke. Like his blood, he shared no fondness for the Lannister knight. Jaime liked to think it was a result of his brother’s influence but he knew better. No honorable man cared for a Lannister and even less of a Kingslayer. Unlike his brother, however, Benjen had no problems being in his presence. He strolled over to Jaime’s side and licked his lips when he noticed Jaime's engorged erection.

Jaime tucked it in at once.

Benjen chuckled. “I suppose I interrupted something?” He glanced over at Jaime’s covered erection. “Would you like me to come back?”

“On the contrary, you should have come sooner,” Jaime replied, smooth like the butter on his father’s ass when the sycophants came. “You missed your wife.”

“Did I? I’ll apologize to him in the morning.”

“I wouldn’t worry. Your brother took good care of him in your stead.”  
“He always does,” Benjen said. His lips twitched into a smile. He stared at Jaime with amusement; as if the older man was an entertainer ready to perform.  His nonchalance unnerved Jaime, who was used to the squirming and glares of men not ready to face their weaknesses. Benjen wasn’t like those men, or more aptly, Jaime read his weakness wrong.   
“Doesn't it bother you?" He tried again.

“What?”

"That your wife and brother have cuckolded you like some crippled fool?” Jaime took a step forward. “That your men mock you within ear’s reach?”

Benjen chuckled and waved his hand over the pissed bodies of victorious soldiers. “These are not my men, Ser Jaime. And you care far too much about what people think.”

“And you don’t care?” Jaime asked, his voice verging on annoyance. “That your brother fucks your wife?”

“Someone has to.”

Jaime remained stunned. Benjen smiled at him as clutched onto Jaime’s white cloak, now painted with splotches of red and brown and gray. He tilted his head, contemplated an unknown matter,  asked the Lannister for assistance. "Help me to my room; as you’ve stated before, it will empty without my wife, and I am drunk.”

Jaime had never met a more sober man. He had every mind to refuse, citing his duty to his king, but the alternative was to watch his brother in law drool over the table with his britches down and his ass bare.

The White Cloak led the Stark outside the dining quarters and allowed himself to be directed to the proper cabin. He clutched onto Jaime’s cloak the entire time.   

“You know I wasn’t supposed to fight in this war. If my brother had married Howland as he promised, I would be at the Night’s Watch.”  

Jaime scoffed. “Yes, you are so misfortunate to escape a life shoveling shit onto snow and living on horse feed.” 

It was surprising to see the teenage boy reacted to the provocation. “And you think you’re so noble? Guarding a man who plans to drink and whore his way to an early grave? Guarding a mad king who you later stabbed in the back like a coward?” Benjen stopped in his tracks; he maneuvered in front of Jaime, snarling like the wolf he is; like the wolf his entire family represented. "If King Robert had married my sister and done half the things to her that he does to the Queen, he wouldn't be the king any longer."

"If he had married your sister, he wouldn't be king. The whole realm would have benefitted from that."

"And who should be king? You?"

 Like a tempestuous beast, Benjen drew closer. Jaime did not know why, but the urge to place a hand on his sword grew stronger. He resisted, he wouldn’t deem this green boy _a threat_.

"Perhaps you should save your ferocity for battling wildlings, Lord Benjen."

Benign glared at him. Finally, his anger disappeared without a trace. "The Men of the Night's Watch have guarded this kingdom for over eight thousand years. They are a brotherhood.” Benjen was bolder than his brother; he moved the hand on Jaime’s cloak to his sword hand and became one of the first alphas that made his breath hitch like a hill. Jaime wondered if it was his wife’s influence that made Benjen body so sinuous; that made his blue eyes pop like the ocean hit by lightning. 

Before Jaime could correct his thinking, Benjen asked him when he joined the Kingsguard.

“Fifteen,” Jaime muttered before he could come up with some clever retort. Tyrion would be so ashamed of his big brother.

“Fifteen,” Benjen whistled out. “Barely rutted and already you want to swear off cunts for the rest of your life.”

"The Night Watch is no better." reminded.  

“Oh, but for a man of my tastes, it might as well be a brothel.” Benjen watched his companion’s eyes widened. The Lannister took a step back to collect his thoughts, but Benjen followed, never letting him have a breath without his knowledge. "Have you ever fucked an omega, Ser Jaime?"

Benjen removed his hand and used his other to come together to caress his soft cock. "Have you ever tasted their honey in their mouth and drowned in it?"

“Yes,” Jaime breathed out.  

“How many?” Benjen asked.

“One, just one.” His sister, the Queen. His beautiful, volatile Cersei who would rather claw apart his face than allow him happiness with another. He loved her dearly and madly; a love that was all-consuming and dangerous to him, her, and their golden-haired children. Love that was meant to defy the gods.

“Did you love them?”

Jaime swallowed. “I do.”

Benjen raised an eyebrow at the tense. They reached his door and Benjen asked if he wanted to come in. Jaime did not, but he allowed himself to be dragged inside regardless. Jaime sat down and after some contemplation, removed his sword and placed it at his side. Benjen did the same and in either a competition of fearlessness or an act of neutrality, left his blade on top of his trunk. Even without the sword, Jaime held the advantage of strength, but Benjen was going out of his way to make it clear he wasn’t a threat.

“Would you like some wine?” Benjen poured two cups. He took a sip of his first before handing it back to Jaime. Jaime took it despite his reluctance to drink. Alcohol made men sloppy and he had too many secrets to risk spilling over wine.

“You are a beautiful man,” Benjen praised out of nowhere. “Howland told me you were but I wanted to see you for myself.”

“The maidens of the West cried when I took my vows,” Jaime announced with no small amount of mockery. He remembered Tyrion making such a jest a few years ago. He’d been told tirelessly of his handsome face, but never from another alpha. This Stark was a peculiar one, and Jaime’s intrigue forbade him from leaving the room.

“If you weren’t as handsome as you are, I wouldn’t have even glanced at you. We’re not fond of Lannisters in my family.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Benjen gave him another smile. Jaime wondered if there was something in the wine that turned his body warm whenever the teenager did so. “The people of the Neck told me it didn’t matter how much I despise you or your family. That what I wanted didn’t have anything to do with love or respect.”

Jaime snorted at his declaration. “And what do you plan to do with me?” Even with the wine, Jaime would have no problem cutting this child in half. Benjen was thin enough to snap in half.

“Have you ever fucked an alpha?”

Jaime choked. He was coughing out grape spittle when he snapped. “I’m not a degenerate." Benjen did not answer his claim with words. He got on his knees. Benjen turned his skilled hands to Jaime’s pants, and undid the laces slowly, offering a chance to escape whenever he paused to admire how the ties fell upon his thighs.

“What are you doing?” He asked, not yet moving to leave. His sword was still at his side. He could easily have walked out.

Benjen chuckled. “I supposed it’s true what they say; the gods only give a man so many gifts. That face must be yours because they certainly didn’t bless you with a brain.”  

Jaime snarled. His response was halted when Benjen grabbed his cock and started rubbing it to full harness. He licked the tip, making Jaime’s head throw back.

“You have a great cock,” Benjen admired as he wrapped his lips around the head, suckling more enthusiastically as pre-cum built up from the top. Jaime’s cock was nestled between a bush of golden curls and the thickness of his shaft predicted a gorgeous, rounded knot. It had been a while since someone knotted his throat.  

When Benjen removed his mouth completely, Jaime reached out to keep him there, only to retract his hand in shame. Benjen caught his embarrassment but had the sense not to laugh. He got up and undid Jaime’s cloak. The fabric fell to the bed. Jaime felt the world lifted from his shoulders with its absence. He was a boy again, a young knight, a man in bed with another man. It was freeing. Benjen furthered their sinful act when he started to unbuckle Jaime’s armor. Jaime should have stopped him, but he considered the possibility too late. Benjen was back on his knees again and his mouth was wrapped around Jaime’s rigid cock. Jaime grabbed a handful of Benjen’s long hair and pushed his face against his balls.

"Oh, fucking hells," Jaime moaned. It seemed that where Starks lacked in conversation, their mouths made up in other pleasures. Jaime picked up a quick rhythm as he started to thrust forward. The sight of his manhood disappearing into the alpha’s throat— _the very fucking honorable Ned Stark’s little brother no less_ , was empowering. Jaime Lannister had been through two wars; he’d seen alphas get degraded and fucked and pissed upon in an attempt to break their spirit. He’d never seen one willingly offer up their mouths for fucking.

Benjen kept his lips wrapped around Jaime's cock, and his throat relaxed, clearly used to having an alpha’s growing knot inside him. The thought made Jaime moaned. How many stable boys and bannermen’s children have had their way with the young wolf? It must have been so easy for him to partake in depravities; no would suspect an alpha of the Stark lineage to be a _sword swa_ llower.

“You have a mouth fit for an omega, one made to fuck.” Jaime wouldn’t know; the only mouth he’s ever been in is Cersei’s and even she refused to get her throat knotted. Few “self-respecting” omegas did. Jealously, Jaime thought of Howland Reed and his always wet, open mouth. Jaime dreamed of the day he would be able to bulge inside someone’s throat. He never thought it would be in an alpha nor a Stark, but he wasn’t complaining. Benjen may not be a beauty like his sister, but in Jaime’s opinion, he was far more appealing. Cersei would kill any omega who caught his attention which made Benjen Stark perfect. A fighter with scandalous inclinations and a gorgeous mouth. Someone like him was wasted on the filth of the Night’s Watch. If he were a southerner, Jaime might have been able to convince him to join the White Cloaks instead and have fun in his quarters on occasion.

Benjen’s throat choked on Jaime’s almost fully formed knot and tightened around his cock. “Fuck!” Jaime groaned. He left his distracted thoughts to focus on the Stark in front of him.  If Benjen Stark wanted to be a whore for any alpha with a sword, then Jaime was going to comply to his wishes. “Can’t wait to see those lips of yours stretched around my knot,” he gritted out. He snapped his hips forward faster.

Jaime pushed his cock all the way in until his balls were pushed against Benjen’ cheeks. His knot swelled and caught inside of Benjen, stretching his throat wide open while hot semen started to shoot down Benjen’s throat.

It was the best blowjob of his life, and possibly the greatest orgasm he ever had. Following his release, Jaime's sense of reason returned to him. Once he deflated enough, Jaime slipped out of Benjen Stark's _goddamn perfect mouth_ and made an attempt to tie up his pants.

“I need to go,” Jaime muttered. “Tell no one of this, or I will…”

“What? Tell my brother?” Benjen licked the leftover essence on his lips. t a possibility. Jaime swallowed as more of his cum found its way down Benjen’s throat. "Kill me?" They both knew it wasn't a possibility. The Stark’s mouth was swollen and pink, like the plush lips of an omega’s cunt—only better. No god gave Benjen’s his sluttish body. _Jaime did that to him._

Benjen got off his knees and straddled Jaime’s lap. “This is our secret. I do not take pride in bedding a Lannister.” He pressed his lips against Jaime’s ear. “But since you’ve already used my mouth, why not indulge in the rest of me?”

Benjen grinded his hips onto Jaime’s soft cock. Jaime growled. He would not stay tender for much longer—not with Benjen’s hips moving the way they are.  

Jaime pulled Benjen’s pants down. He grabbed Benjen’s pale ass and pushed his finger into the hole soaked in artificial slick—a combination of strawberry oil and something herbal.  

“You came prepared,” Jaime said dryly.

“I planned to get fucked tonight—with or without you.”

Jaime jammed his thumbs up the boy's ass. When he wailed, it sparked some sensibility in Jaime and he made a motion to leave. He threw Benjen to the side and tried to pick up his clothing. To his surprise, Benjen laughed at his disarray.

“My brother was right about you.”                                                            

The notion made him hesitated to put on his armor. He should have known better to respond but he could not let another Stark gain the last word. “About what?”

“That all you know how to do is kill and break vows.” Benjen removed his pants and dropped them to the floor. "There was no way a traitor like you would be able to fuck me the way I want." Jaime turned around and saw that Benjen's shirt was gone. There was nothing soft about Benjen aside from his youth. Fully nude, Jaime could see this was an alpha, through and through. He had a pair of heavy balls and a cock suited to please any omega.

 Benjen got off the bed. He caressed Jaime’s face—the boy was quite infatuated with his face. “My brother says you’re a dishonorable coward who doesn’t deserve his cock and I think he’s right.”

“Do you?” Jaime snarled. His fists clenched.

Benjen nodded. “Yes, unless you like to prove me wrong— _Kingslayer_.”

Jaime could no longer listen to this brat. This green boy knew nothing of the mad king’s tyranny, how Jaime, then a boy of fifteen, spent hours listening to the man rape his wife and burn his subjects alive.

Jaime pushed Benjen’s thin form onto the bed and dragged his bare ass towards him. With a swallow, Jaime mounted the boy from behind. He was not the first alpha to have had Benjen, maybe not the second or the third or even the fourth. He used his thumbs to pry Benjen’s entrance wide open, noticing as he did so that the slick increased. He supposed that even whores had to be cautious—Benjen must have cleaned himself raw to prepare his ass and shoved whole bottles to get the same amount of slickness as an omega. When Jaime shoved the head of his cock inside, the rest of his shaft followed.

Jaime released the thumbs holding the hole apart, and the boy's ass clamped down on him, brutally tight. With a groan, Jaime shoved himself forward in short, shallow bursts that each took him another inch deeper until he had buried his full length inside. Jaime paused to catch the moment. Fuck, it was amazing. A follow-up thought left him horrified.

“Best hole I ever had,” he muttered without thinking.

Benjen didn’t see the horror on his face. His own head was buried into his bed and his hands were clenching and unclenching spasmodically in the bedsheets. Jaime pulled out and then slammed back home. He shut himself from reality. The knight no longer wanted to think or feel or live; all he wanted to do was thrust into the offering before him. Benjen’s insides were blissful—he saw _stars_ as rammed in, feeling the way the muscles tightened around him, as though he was trying to suck him in deeper.

Completely lost to his alpha instincts, Jaime pulled out of the boy and sat on the bed, grabbing the teenager and spinning him around so that they were facing each other. He dropped the Stark onto his cock, feeling himself rub against the boy’s walls.  

Jaime grabbed Benjen’s hips with his fingers, pressing in bruises and started lifting the boy up before dropping him down. "You feel so fucking good," Jaime muttered. He felt better than any other omega, better than the one he loved, and Jaime told him so. Benjen practically purred from the praise. He rewarded Jaime's compliment by fucking himself on the lion's cock of his own accord. Jaime watched with a gaping mouth as the gorgeous teen slammed himself up and down. His face lost in the pleasure Jaime was giving him. 

Without thinking, Jaime pulled him into a kiss. He justified his actions by saying that he wanted to stifle his moans so that no one would hear them, but he couldn’t deny that the whimper that escaped Benjen’s lips helped form the biggest knot of Jaime’s life, even putting Benjen’s impromptu blowjob out of yard.

Moments later, Jaime’s orgasm ripped out of him, his balls shook as he added his juices into the liberal lubrication the Stark had prepared himself with. When he was done pouring his cum into Benjen’s ass, he collapsed on top of the bed with his knot still buried inside him. His breath came back to him in pants. Minutes later, even with his soften penis, Jaime did not leave.

“Not bad,” Benjen muttered. His eyes were flickering with fatigue. It won’t be long until he was resting in Jaime’s arms. The Lannister hoped he recovered in time to make sure the boy woke up alone.

Benjen Stark was a whore, and despite his earlier indignation, gratification boiled inside Jaime when he thought of the day Ned Stark found out his little brother was nothing more than a cockslut.

***

Ned’s alarm was identical to Howland’s bell-like laughter. Following his awakening, he regurgitated his dinner in his chamber pot and struggled to leave his bed. The thought of his brother being mounted like a dog by the Kingslayer turned him ill. He considered abandoning his morning meal altogether but the thought of Jon’s brightness made the journey worth it. He sat disappointed when he saw that the table was empty of his eldest boys.

“Where are my sons?” Ned asked, a growl accompanying his request. The entire table fell silent. Finally, the oldest of the serving women shook her head. “We received no answer from them when we checked their rooms, m’lord.” She hesitated. “We believe they overslept from the tiredness of a long journey.”

Something heavy sunk to the bottom of his stomach. He pushed it aside as nausea from the memory. He never felt well after taking the moss, and his mood never failed to falter at the loss of Howland’s touch.

“It’s morning already and they skipped dinner last night.” Ned stood up. “Jon's stomach must be eating itself out from the lack of nourishment. Fix him a plate and have it sent to his bedroom.”

“Yes, m’lord. Would you like us to prepare a meal for Lord Robb as well?”

Ned nodded. “I won’t have him using exhaustion as an excuse for idleness.”

The maids scurried away. Ned was about to storm off when Catelyn cleared her throat. Ned was in no mood to argue; irritation creeped at his sides as bug-like omens prickled his skin. “Yes, Catelyn?”  

Catelyn took a bite of harm. “The serving girls can be trusted to do the work you assigned. While Jon may not be present at this table, your other children are. Surely, you can spare them your time.”

Ned frowned. He glanced over at his children who have conveniently decided to look away. He turned back to Catelyn. “I want to see my boys.”

There was an ill-placed retort resting on the thin line of Catelyn’s lips. The children looked at each other in a circle of concern and apprehension as they bowed their heads above their plate and waited to see if the conversation would contort into a fight or a surrender.

“Fine,” Catelyn said at last. “Hopefully, we can have a fine lunch together as long as your boy isn’t inconvenienced.”

The tension was palpable. “Catelyn, we spoke about using such language in front of the children.”

“I am not using any language,” Catelyn told him. “Go after your son. I, too, am concerned about Robb’s disappearance as I would be for all out children.”

Ned was about to respond when a frightful “m’lord!” was heard at the doorway. It was the serving girl sent to wake the boys. She was panting as if she had a run in with a beast.

Both Starks stood up and the children followed. Ned stormed towards her. “What is the matter?”

The girl shuddered at the intensity in her lord’s voice. “We were…at Jon’s room and tried to wake him but he wouldn’t answer so we tried to open the door but it was locked. And then we heard _this scream_ and Jon’s voice—he was shouting ‘Robb!’ over and over again. He—”

Ned did not wait to hear another word. He dashed down the halls and shouted at his guards to come with him. When they arrived at Jon’s door, several men were already there, having been told the story by the girls on their way to their lord. Two of them were throwing their bodies against the door, loosening the hinges with each tackle.

 “It’s barricaded!” 

“We can see that!” Jory yelled. The guardsman moved over to help and Ned followed. The four of them tackled the doorway and the force of their strength turned the blockade of wardrobes and desks into splinters. The sight of Robb’s knot moving through his brother’s slick ass made everyone speechless.

***

The last thing either brother remembered before the world turned to black was a surge of divine pleasure and a godly released. When Jon awoke in Luwin’s study, lucidity was resting while his instincts were running amuck in his body. They urged him to display his neck while making high-pitched whines, hoping that his submissiveness would appease the wrathful alpha in front of him.

Ned Stark was on a tirade of fury. “How could this have happened?” Ned shouted.

Jon winced; he pulled himself underneath the covers.

Luwin caught his reaction and moved towards his student. He wrapped the child up in a ball of wool and fur. “You must be hungry,” he soothed.

Jon whimpered and nodded. His tongue wasn’t working properly and there was nothing but sand in his mouth. Luwin glanced over at Lord Stark and handed him a cup of milk. “He needs nourishment,” Luwin whispered. “If you continue to let your emotions blind you, it will cause his mind to regress further. We can’t afford that—especially not after you ripped him away mid-mating.”  

“I had no choice!” Ned growled. “Robb was—”

“— Responding to the call of an omega's heat,” Luwin clarified. "That is no excuse. You know better."

“Are you saying I should have let him continue to _rape_ his little brother?”

“I’m saying that acting rashly has consequences of its own.” Luwin sighed when he saw Jon bury himself further. “We need to keep Jon stable until his heat is gone. Since he has already copulated with an alpha, his heat will be extended without continued _relations_." Luwin tried to be cautious with his words. They were stepping into a field of wildfire, and any wrong move could have a barrel tumbling into their path.

Ned clenched his fist. He sat down beside his son but the omega turned away from him.

“Calm,” Luwin hissed. “He can smell your anger.”

Ned growled. He took a deep breath and eased his babe into his arms. Jon felt his sire’s touch on his cheek and the familiar woodiness of his sweat caused him to lower his defenses. Jon purred into his arms. He may not be Robb, but he was a decent distraction. Ned took the milk and started to feed him with small sips. Things were well until the doors slammed open to reveal Catelyn Stark’s wild expression.  

Jon gasped and retreated to his father's arms. Ned tightened his grip around his son. He glared at his wife.  

“ _The dungeons_?” Venom spewed out of her mouth as her body flowed red with rage. “You sent our son to sit in the cages of rapists and thieves?” When she saw Jon trembling, her snarling grew louder.

Ned did not dare separate from his beloved child. He held onto him as he explained, hoping the fury coursing through his veins would not upset his fragile child. “I sent our son to the dungeons because he was _feral_ ,” Ned growled. “He attacked his brother in heat! He violated their trust and barricaded the room to keep us from interfering!”

“He was seduced!” Catelyn yelled. “Tempted by your whore of a son!”

“Jon is the victim in this! He was innocent until Robb laid his hands on him!”

“He was never innocent,” Catelyn hissed. “Jon knows that Robb could never resist him. He’s been waiting for this moment; the moment we all let our guards down so that he can lure Robb into his cunt. Robb is a good, honorable man. He would never forgive himself for deflowering his brother and now he is trapped by your whore son’s folds. Think what you want but no matter how you look at it, this is the act of a wicked omega!”  

Ned released Jon from his hold, resulting in the most heart wrenching wail that either parties have ever heard. Luwin slammed his fist on the ground; the abnormal display of aggression from the omega stunned the Starks silent.

“Making accusations on your children’s behalf does nothing for the problem at hand. Jon and Robb have consummated, but until the heat is over, we know nothing of the circumstances. For now, we don’t know which son is to blame or if there is anyone to blame at all.” Both Starks humbled themselves. Though their theories rumbled maliciously in their heads, both carried the wisdom to listen to Luwin’s explanation. “I’ve checked my calendars; Jon’s heat was supposed to arrive in two months. The most reasonable explanation is that the stress from the travel and prolonged exposure to unfamiliar alphas has caused his cycle to change, perhaps even strengthen his heat. If this is the case, neither child can be blamed for their involvement.”

“Innocent until guilty,” Catelyn whispered. She shook her head, laughing in both horror and forced amusement. She turned to her husband. "My son is innocent. _Our_ son is innocent."

Ned turned back to Jon whose shudders have diminished to a light shiver. "My son will never be innocent again."

Luwin winced. "Think about this rationally, my lord. Wait for a conviction. Keep Robb as your heir, until absolute guilt can be proven?”

Luwin stared at Lord Stark, who he had known since he was a boy. The man did not say anything; he looked more distant than ever as if he was no longer connected to this plane. The world grew deaf as he turned his heel. He did not look at either of them for the rest of the night. Ned grabbed his bundle of a boy and cradled his beloved son in his arms. The milk was lukewarm, but Jon slurped it up happily. He will need food; Ned thought while Catelyn's pleas of ‘Ned' and ‘please' chanted in the background. He picked up his child and carried him to the door. 

It was this conversation that Ned Stark realized the others were right; he did favor Jon over his other children. Jon and his sweet curls and gray eyes and his mother's perfect smile and form. Jon, who talked like Howland at his happiest, which has always been when the two of them were together as Ned and Howland, not Lord Stark and Lord Reed. He saw Howland in Jon and the thought of losing his sole connection to another alpha, any alpha, even his son, was unforgivable.

At the doorway, with his son’s head on his shoulder and his eyes on the hallway, he spoke.

“Robb is my oldest son; Winterfell is his birthright. I will not take it from him.”

Catelyn could have cried in relief.  Before she could thank her husband, he spoke.

“But from this day forward, do not waste a moment believing Jon is second to any of your children.” At that moment, Jon’s arms escaped his pillowy prison and latched around his father’s neck. Ned's tightened his hold on his babe. "When this heat is over, I will send a raven to King’s Landing and Jon will be a Stark in more than just blood.”   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I am the first person to ever publish Jamie Lannister and Benjen Stark smut. Lesson? Never underestimate Rule 34.   
> I remember watching the GoT scene between Jaime and Jon and thought it hilarious that Jaime went out of his way to mock Jon—which made me theorize that there was some underlying issue there which made me think, yeah, he had a thing with Benjen Stark. Obviously. White Cloaks vs. Black Cloaks, baby.   
> 2\. Originally, this was supposed to have Asha and Theon but as I was editing the chapter, the storylines did not mesh well with the Starks nor did they follow the theme I was going for. I had to cut that scene out (again) but this time I actually wrote it and hopefully it will find a place in the next chapter. Faulkner was right, sometimes you just got to kill your darlings.   
> 3\. Next chapter will involve King’s Landing (and STANISXDAVOS, one of my many OTPs). In this chapter, we get to see how far Howland’s influence has stretched. Remember that he’s been planning this upheaval since Jon. Was. Born.   
> 4\. Howland’s been planting and it is time to harvest.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire flashback, in the beginning, is pure StannisxDavos fanservice and is almost completely unimportant to the plot. I honestly wrote it for me because I love Stannis and Davos together. They are ranked in my top 5 GoT pairings.   
> It doesn’t get important until the sex scene.

Stannis was a traditionalist in regards to marriage. He had no skill for natural courtesies and from the start of his childhood to the age of adulthood, remained friendless and unpopular. He was never beautiful like Renly, nor charismatic like Robert, yet like all omegas, he imagined marriage. He wanted to find a husband who was honest and good and kind; the type of alpha Maester Cressen promised for him. When he blossomed, alphas from all over the continent came for his ceremony, but none of them met his standards. They were old and cruel, with greedy hands grasping for his dowry. Maester Cressen turned them all away, and Stannis endured another year of his brother’s mockery, followed by more years of being the “old maid of the Baratheon family.”

Before long, Stannis understood that he was not destined for a happy marriage if any at all. He ventured into more fitting pursuits and became a skilled warrior, an accomplished commander, and sailor, and worked so that the Baratheon name would never be short of pride. He protected his homeland and maintained leadership throughout the Rebellion. He never complained, not when Ned Stark was praised for lifting the siege—even though it was Stannis who spent months at Storm’s End, toiling for survival, or when his rightful inheritance was stripped away from him and given to Renly.

Stannis remained the dutiful omega, who followed his alpha’s command at every turn. It didn’t matter that his family alpha was an incompetent whoremonger whose policies were controlled by an old man with a senile wife. All that matter was that Stannis was silent when Robert arranged a marriage between him and Ser Imry Florent of House Florent, a man who was willing to forgo the dowry to marry a lord of standing, Stannis settled his fuming innards with scriptures of obedience. Only maester Cressen dare defy Robert; with his brittle voice, he asked that they wait for a better offer. Neither the king nor his Hand would allow further discussion. The marriage was almost immediate.

On the night of his wedding, Stannis wore the finest cloak he ever owned: gold jacquard with embroideries of black stags—the colors and sigil of his house. Just the cost alone was enough to make him cringe. He preferred more practical ensembles, but no man of the Reach would allow his bride to wear something so drab. The entire wedding was an extravagance and Stannis already feared for their purse strings in the future. It was just his luck that Robert would marry him off to a spendthrift.

When he finished dressing, Stannis requested solitude from his helpers. The omegas scurried off in relief. Stannis was a joyless bride; his apathy for the upcoming nuptials made the festivities in the other room downright depressing. While they were leaving, another presence snuck his way through the open door. “Am I interrupting, M'lord?”

Stannis sighed in relief. “No, Ser Davos. I am pleased by your presence.” The man had disappeared for the entire day; his lack of company turned the gut-wrenching sensation in Stannis’ stomach to a stabbing. Seeing him now was a blessing; Stannis was too relieved to be upset. Ser Davos was the only man who could bring him reprieve on this dismal day. Renly and Robert may have their friends and followers, but none of them would ever match Davos—the roguish smuggler turned knight who saved Stannis and his people at Storm’s End; the man who complimented Stannis’ aim after he sliced off his fingers in penance, who almost made him smile when he kissed his hand the night they met.

“Where were you today?” Stannis asked. He stood up to confront him. Davos’ eyes widened, and for a second, Stannis wondered if he looked as revolting as he felt.

“You look beautiful, M'lord,” Davos declared. He spoke with such reverence and heat that it burnt Stannis' cheeks red. The young lord turned away.

“Do not lie,” Stannis told him. “I look ridiculous.”

“If that’s the word young men are using to describe beauty than I am inclined to agree.”

If he were anyone else, Stannis would have deemed him a liar and a sycophant and send him on his way. But this was Davos, and he was nothing if not ungarnished in his honesty. When Stannis got closer, he noticed another oddity that had him furrowing his brow.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Stannis asked. “I bought you robes for the ceremony. Did you not get them?” He knew he should have delivered the goods himself. All these Reach maids seemed more focus on giggles and gossip than doing actual work.  

“I got them, M'lord. You are too kind.” Davos sighed. “But they are wasted on me. I will not be attending the ceremony.”

“Why not?” Stannis gave Davos a once over. He watched as the older man’s eyes sink in with guilt. “Why are you dressed like you’re going to sea?”

“Because I am, M'lord. I have a ship ready. I merely came to tell you.”

Stannis’ heart tightened. “I don’t understand. What is so urgent that you cannot wait until after my wedding?”  

“It is hard to explain.”

“Then make it easy.”

Davos chuckled. “You’re bloody relentless, M'lord. Have I ever told you that?” Stannis’ heart leaped in his chest. Davos was the only man who ever laughed at Stannis in good humor; not like the mocking snickers towards the “old maid" or the “lobster lord.”

Stannis took a deep breath. He tried to sound annoyed rather than anxious. “Davos, I will not tolerate frivolities on my wedding day. If you do not wear proper robes, then you will attend as is but you are coming.”

“I do not have the strength to attend.”

“Are you ill?” Stannis snapped.

“A most treacherous disease,” Davos answered with a wry smile. “The worst in history.”  

Stannis’ heart stopped. He grabbed Davos’ arm. “All the more reason not to go to sea! You must see a maester at once. Have you spoken to Maester Cressen?”

“It is not a physical illness, M'lord.”

Stannis frowned. “I am growing tired of this,” he huffed. “Tell me in plain words what is wrong, and I will fix it.”  

“You can’t.” Davos took Stannis’ hand and the pleasant warmth from their first meeting, the same warmth that resurfaces whenever Davos used his name or brushed his stubbed fingers against his skin or just looked at him, came back. “When I first heard of your engagement, I told myself I would abandon all desire as long as the alpha you married was worthy of you. I have met Ser Imry, and I cannot serve you while _that fool_ is your husband.”  

“Ser Davos, you are out of line—”

Davos cut his lord off by pulling him close. He stared deep into his Stannis' eyes. “I drank myself nearly to death yesterday,” Davos confessed. “I wanted my heart to stop because it was preferable to the pain of losing you. I am not strong enough to watch you be taken away and do nothing. If that septon speaks so much as a word of an eternal bond, not even the Kingsguard will stop me from following my heart, and I know that is wrong. To salvage my sanity, I will leave. I will return to sea and never see you again. It is the honorable thing to do.”

“What honor? You made a vow to me, and now you are breaking it,” Stannis reminded. He tried not to shout, to showcase his desperation like some forgotten mistress. “You promised to stay by my side.”   

“I made a stronger vow for your happiness.” Stannis frowned. Davos shook his head. “I know it is your dream to marry, Lord Stannis. To have children, to be a wife. I won’t take away that dream from you.”

“You don’t have to,” Stannis whispered. “Just stay.”

Davos shook his head. “If he were a better man, I may have stayed. But he isn’t. I know the truth, Lord Stannis. You are better than him. You are fierce, and you are honorable, and you are _good_ , and if you marry that man, he will murder that part of you that is free.” Davos kissed his hand, and his lips lingered on Stannis’ skin. “Stannis Baratheon, I love you.”

Stannis froze, and instead of excruciating horror, all he could feel was bliss and delight. The ropes of lucidity were sinking with the anchors and Stannis made no moves to haul them up.

“You have a wife,” Stannis whispered. “You have children.”

“Aye,” Davos acknowledge. “A wife whom I have not shared a wedding bed in years. A woman who has seen the way I look at you.” Davos chuckled. “She told me to tell you before I left. Said it was cowardly of me to abandon you after all you’ve done for us.”

Stannis did not move when Davos leaned in and will deny ever shivering when his lips brushed against Stannis’ forehead. “If I were half the man you deserved, I would have kissed you.”

Davos walked away, but Stannis was stubborn to a fault. He turned his heel and grabbed his arm.

“You are a coward,” Stannis breathed out angrily. “To let the omega he claims to love marry another alpha. You are a criminal and a fool and worse of all; you are an oathbreaker to leave me when I need you the most.”  

Davos stood in his spot. “I am all of those things,” Davos admitted, much to Stannis’ dread. “I have nothing to offer you, Lord Stannis.”

“How would you know?” Stannis shouted. “If you love me, you would fight for me. If my betrothed were as unworthy as you claim, it would be your duty as an alpha to keep me from marrying him!” Stannis covered his mouth at the outburst. He had never been so ashamed. Ser Davos took a step forward to comfort him before pulling back. It was that action that caused Stannis to turn away. His eyes were wet, but he refused to let a drop fall. “Am I so hard to love?”  

“No, you—” The words died on Davos’ lips. For the longest time, there was no movement or sound. Stannis was not sure when Davos slipped out of the bedroom, but it took a chambermaid to declare that it was time for the ceremony to realize he was alone. Ser Davos Seaworth was gone, and until the hour he stepped on the sept, Stannis believed it would have been the last he saw of his Onion Knight.

***

No amount of candles or glass windows could lighten the darkness of the hour.

Stannis did not smile, but no one saw the difference in his mood. He was the most solemn bride they ever saw, and some of the attendees were at Lysa Tully’s wedding. The only person as visibly upset was Maester Cressen, who hesitated to take off Stannis’ maiden’s cloak, and perhaps Jon Arryn, who was attending the wedding alone. When the ceremony started, Cressen’s chilling stare fixated on the groom. His disapproval was well noted throughout the court. The service went on both too fast and too slow. Stannis grinded his teeth the entire time, hoping the torture stopped prolonging itself. When Stannis was deigned to receive the Florent’s house colors, the doors flung open.

Davos Seaworth was a smuggler, but he made an entrance like a pirate. The man was wearing the robes Stannis bought him, and it looked as ill-fitting as anyone could expect. He was huffing and wet as if he swam to the shores to get back to him. Stannis got on his feet.

“What madness is this?” Ser Imry yelled. He turned to his guards. “Seize him!”

“Do not move,” Stannis said immediately in response. The Florent lord watched in horror as his men obeyed. While they were in the Reach, Stannis was still the king’s brother and a higher lord. His commands held more weight.

Davos did not waste his opportunity. He marched up to the sept and pulled Stannis into a kiss. The entire audience gasped in shock and scandalous delight. Stannis was gasping when he turned away.  

“You were right,” Davos breathed out. “I should fight for you.” He bent down on one knee and took off his gloves. Grotesque murmurs spread throughout the sept as the sight of his stubbed fingers made their way into their visions. Davos grabbed both of Stannis hands and caressed them lovingly.

“What are you doing?” Stannis asked.

“In the customs of war, bending the knee means to pledge one’s fealty and devotion. I bend my knee to you, Stannis Baratheon, because I could think of no other, I could give my life to.” Davos gave him a chagrined smile. “I have no money, no lands, no power or glory; I have no name, and even if I did, I couldn’t write it. I am an old man with three sons and a living wife—” Oh the lords and ladies thrilled in that shameful piece of information. Stannis glared at them to keep silent. Davos continued his speech. “But I love you, and I will devote my life to making you happy.” Davos kissed Stannis hands—the same hands that held the sword sliced off his fingers. “Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, Master of ships, and the love of my life, will you marry me?”

Stannis made a strange, guttural noise in his throat that blocked his answer. Ser Irmy was throwing a fit, yelling at the audacity of the request.

“How dare you interrupt my wedding with this inane request?” He yelled. “I am a knight!”

“We’re all knights,” Davos told him rather pointedly. “The king and lords give knighthoods like pox when they've enough to drink." 

Irmy sputtered out a storm of outrage. Eventually, he turned to the septon. “His wife still lives,” Irmy stressed. “Any marriage he has is invalid.” His triumph threatened to ruin Stannis’ hope. He was right. Davos could not marry him while Marya lived.

“That’s not true.”

All members of the party turned to Maester Cressen. The lame man stumbled forward, with Stannis lending his arm for support and Davos getting up to help him stand.

Maester Cressen turned to the septon. “If an annulment is approved, then the two can marry without issue.”

“An annulment?” Stannis question.

The Florent refused to indulge the possibility. “There are no grounds for annulment. He is grasping at straws!”

Maester Cressen took a moment to deter from the drama and speak to Stannis. Out of all the Baratheon children, Stannis was his favorite; he was the son he never had and would continue to be so until the day he died. “Do you love this man?”

Stannis gaped. Throughout the entire confrontation, with Davos confessing in his private quarters and this travesty of a wedding, he had never admitted his feelings. His tongue felt bitter and hard, and his body grew hot. After a long, internal confliction, he turned to Davos and saw his answer in a second.

“I do,” Stannis whispered.

Cressen nodded. He turned to Davos. “And do you swear, on your life, that you will do whatever it takes to make him happy?”

Davos nodded without hesitation. “I do.”

The maester believed him. He turned to the septon. “Am I correct to say that the grounds for an annulment are: misrepresentation or fraud of character, concealment of fact, inability to consummate the marriage, and the existence of a significant misunderstanding?”

The septon, unsure of how to handle the matter, reluctantly nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Cressen was too focused on the issue at hand to correct his title. “Davos was a smuggler before his knighthood. If Davos’ wife was unaware of his profession when they married, would it count as a concealment of fact or even, a fraud of character?”  

The septon coughed. “I suppose so.” The heat from the Florent knight made him correct his assessment. He blanched in fright. “But we would need a statement from his wife, claiming she was unaware of his history when they married!”

“You will get one,” Davos promised at once. Stannis turned to him in surprise.

Davos kissed his hand again. “I would never lie to you, M'lord. I assure you of my Marya's accommodation.”

Stannis almost smiled, but could not bear the thought of revealing too much of himself. He was used to his dreams being taken away.

Ser Irmy’s lower lip trembled. “I made a pact with the king! You still need the approval from your family’s alpha.” He sneered. “Surely, his grace would never allow his younger brother to wed a pirate.”

“I was a smuggler,” Davos corrected.   

Stannis reluctantly turned to his older brother and cringed. Robert has only ever not disappointed him in the aspect of constantly disappointing him. It seemed like fate that his happiness would be left in his hands. His older brother walked up to the sept. Maester Cressen made a move to intercede and was mimicked by Jon Arryn’s footwork. Robert turned them both away. He stared at Stannis before turning to Davos.

“You want to marry him?” Robert narrowed his eyes. “He has no tits, no ass, no sense of humor. If death by boredom werepossible, the entire sept would be massacred by now.”

Stannis glared at his older brother. Davos’ resolve, however, did not falter.

“He has strength and courage and every word he utters is gospel to me,” Davos countered. “I am unworthy of him, but I will do everything in my power to make him happy.”  

Stannis held onto Davos’ hand. “Your grace,” Stannis intervened. “ _Robert—_ I have never asked you for anything. I have fought for you, and I have followed your command. I will continue to do so until the end of your days. You owe me this much.”

There was a moment of silence that passed between them. The two stared at each other, and Stannis wondered if this was the first time his brother ever truly looked at him. Jon Arryn attempted to get a word in. “Perhaps we should postpone the ceremony…” he suggested. 

“No,” Robert spoke. “That won’t be necessary.”

Stannis grinded his teeth.

“There will be no ceremony.”

Thunderous whispers and murmurs pulsed throughout the room in an instant. Stannis stared at Robert in surprise.

Robert nodded at Davos. “If your wife agrees to the annulment, you will receive my blessing.”

 “Your grace—!” The Florent groom protested. “We had a deal!”

Robert snorted. “My brother is in charge of the country’s naval fleet. If you want to discuss nuptials, have at it, but it won’t be with me.” Robert turned to his guests. “Let’s not let a good party go to waste. I already paid for the wine, after all.” He raised his glass and drank.

“Robert?” Stannis asked. “I—”

Robert waved him off. He glanced over at Stannis, and for the longest second, Stannis was worried he would change his mind. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile,” Robert confessed. “You almost did, when this smuggler barged in the sept, offering to throw you over his shoulder and whisk you away. Thought it looked odd.” Robert paused. “But I didn’t hate it.”

Robert shook his head and walked off. More people stood on their feet, staggering out with shocked whispers and exaggerated scandals for tomorrow. Ser Irmy Florent stormed off, and though he continued his knightly duties, he never spoke to the royal family again.

Stories of the wedding spread throughout the kingdom and were well-received of the smallfolk, who found themselves rejuvenated with new passion and fantasies. They began to adopt a similar method of proposal, bending the knee when they wished to spend eternity with a loved one. It had been awhile since they’ve heard such a passionate tale—not since Duncan Targaryen abdicated his throne for the sake of marrying Jenny of Oldstones.

The act was the kindest gift Robert had ever given Stannis, and it was to be the start of an alternative future for Stannis. Had he married a Florent, he would have discovered that the two of them were incompatible, both personally and biologically. Their children would have been weak and sickly, and most would never make it to term. They might have had a daughter, and she would have been a sweet but sullen child, without friends and fearful of perception.

On the contrary, Stannis Baratheon and Davos Seaworth proved to be highly compatible. And when Stannis’ heat came at the inopportune time of his wedding day, the two of them had no choice but to postpone it. On their next available date, there was an issue with Stannis' health and the wedding was held off again. And again. And again. By the time they were at the altar, Stannis was unable to kneel because of his bulging belly.

***

As a wife, Stannis Baratheon understood that true pleasure came from serving one’s husband and bearing his children. Submission was essential for a happy marriage, and one should never refuse their husband his desires if he were so kind to come to him for relief. Stannis made sure to be prepped and ready at all times—going so far as to prepare himself before attending the small council meetings. Davos often surprised him after the room cleared and Stannis never denied him when he bent over their large table.

“Do you like this?” Davos grunted. His hands were clutching onto Stannis’ hips as he picked up the pace and continued slamming into his lord. Stannis’ body was moving the small council’s table forward; the wood was wet from Stannis’ honey, and his knees buckled underneath Davos’ weight. Pleasure swirled inside of Stannis’ belly with each powerful snap of Davos’ hips. He, like a good wife, made sure to clench his ass around that thick cock pushing through his insides.

Posterior intercourse was disapproved by The Seven, as such a position could not possibly result in children. Nonetheless, as a wife, Stannis was obligated to please Davos’ needs. In fact, he was so devoted to his husband’s pleasure that he begged his spouse to go harder, and perhaps, even told him to use “that thick cock and pound him into the floor.”

Davos said something comforting, kissed him on the neck where he was bitten, nice and deep for everyone to see. The act was archaic, marking and binding one’s omega like property, but Stannis felt some values needed to upheld even in these times of debauchery. An omega should be proud to be his alpha’s property. Stannis uttered Davos’ name in rough gasps and desperate moans, before pushing back his hips to get the cock deeper inside. There was nothing better than being balls deep inside an omega’s ass, and if Davos wasn’t going to take the initiative, Stannis had a duty to do it for him. He wanted to make sure Davos was buried inside, with the head of his cock snugly placed against his prostate. Davos’ deformed hand grabbed his throat and pulled him backward so that they could kiss. Stannis loved feeling the stubs against his skin. The deformity slipped inside his mouth when they were done kissing, and Stannis sucked obediently. 

“Stannis, are you ready?” Davos grunted out. “I’m going to come inside. That alright?”

Oh, Davos was far too considerate of a husband. It was his right to spill his seed in his wife whenever he wished, but he insisted on asking. Stannis did not blame him for being cautious. Even without a knot, Davos’ seed was almost impossibly voluminous. During their first heat, Stannis remained dripping for days.

“Yes,” Stannis gritted out. “Just…” Stannis groaned as Davos jabbed against his prostate. “Go all the way inside.”

Davos groaned. The table started to creak as he began to thrust more wildly inside of Stannis’ ass. The Lord of Dragonstone was driven mad by his husband’s hammering. All his pleasure spots were getting abused by his spouse’s thick cock, and it wasn’t soon before he was lost in pleasure. His eyes diluted in delight and he started focusing on his other fantasies—the most memorable caused him to lock eyes on the doorknob.

The small council room was a scandalous place to make love, but who was he to deny his husband’s voracious appetite? Stannis was a proper omega—he would never confess to the twisted pleasure that churned within him whenever the thought of someone, perhaps his brother or even a wandering maid, were to come into the room and catch him and Stannis in the act.

Davos made a few final thrusts before pushing in deep. Stannis moaned as a huge amount of warm, thick liquid rushed into his ass.

When the two finished, Davos assisted his lover’s footing and waited for him to finish cleaning up. The two left the room without making eye contact with any of the serving staff. They visited the septa’s lessons, where they picked up their eldest son, Devan, and ordered one of the serving girls to inform Maester Cressen to bring forth the youngest children and meet them at the beach where the ships were arriving. They made their way to the courtyard where Stannis’ heir, Shireen was practicing her archery. The master-of-arms bowed to Lord Stannis respectfully but made no such gesture towards Davos. She was doing well for a girl of eight, and her aim was superior to her peers, male and female alphas alike.

“The private lessons you’ve given her are paying off,” Davos noted.

Stannis tactfully disagreed—all under the guise of obedience. “Shireen wants to exceed expectations; it cannot be helped that her fellow _pure blooded_ nobles aren’t willing to put in the same effort.”

Davos smiled and kissed his lord’s lips, ignoring the embarrassed flush on Stannis’ face when he did so. It was considered  uncouth to show public affection. Stannis never corrected Davos; it was not Davos' fault that he was unaware of the proper behavior. What kind of wife would he be to embarass him with the revelation? No, it was much more respectful to let Davos continue fondling him as he pleased. 

While Stannis mulled over the lingering kiss on his cheek, Davos scooped up his daughter in his arms. “Papa!” She greeted, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Have the ships arrived?”

“They have indeed,” Davos agreed. “Come along; your brothers are waiting.”

Shireen nodded. The family of three became a pack of six when arrived at the shore. The serving maids and septa handed off their children to the mixed-match pair. Stannis picked up his youngest son, Steffon, into his arms. They were waiting for Davos’ alpha sons to arrive back from their travels. As young men unaccustomed to fortune, the four boys took no joy in the frivolities of court. They preferred to spend their freedom at sea, traveling on thrilling Northern trails and roughing the storms of the eastern waters.

Fortunately, they did not have to wait long. The boat was prompt, and the sails with an onion sigil flowed proudly in the wind. Davos let out a long, heavy sigh of relief. Davos hid his terror well, but Stannis knew how deeply he feared the sight of a funeral rite. When they arrived, Davos’ four sons were as dashing as always, with Dale and Matthos being the spitting image of Davos. Maris, Matthos, and Allard hugged their sire before turning to kiss their good mother with polite fondness.

“Mother sends her warm regards,” Matthos declared.

Stannis tensed. The Lord of Dragonstone could never get used to Marya’s kindness. Upon his petition for an annulment, she only asked to be given the keep Davos was promised and that her eldest son is named Lord of House Seaworth.

Sensing his apprehension, Allard quickly elbowed his little brother in the ribs. “But we are glad to be back in King’s Landing! And to see our brothers and sister again! Have you and father been well?”

Stannis tried not to feel relief, though he knew it was unnecessary. “We have. Thank you, Allard.” Stannis could never understand how readily they accepted him into his family but his brothers could not. The world was odd that way. “Was your journey satisfactory?”

Maric grinned as he swung his arm over his brother. “It was great! We managed to receive passage all the way to the Bite. Warmer than we thought it would be.”

“It is summer,” Stannis pointed out.   

Maric chuckled. “Well, Dale was too busy to take note.”

Speaking of the eldest son, Stannis glanced over at Dale Seaworth. Dale was too busy fondling his wife to greet them upon arriving at shore. Stannis’ frowned at their exhibition; it was like watching a bear maul a salmon. Dale’s wife, Calen, was an enchanting beauty with a notably round bottom and a short stature. Stannis would not mind the young man if he weren't so intent on his erotic showings. His hips were wrapped around Dale’s waist and did not retract when they stepped onto the sandy shores. The sight was disgraceful—and a tad bit arousing.

Stannis cleared his throat to get their attention. When that didn’t work, Davos stepped in.

“Dale, unless you wish me to see the conception of my grandchild, I suggest you take a break.”

Dale chuckled out of the kiss. He placed his wife on the ground and hugged his father. “Good to see you, father.” He bowed to Stannis. “Lord Stannis, you look well.” He kissed his cheek.

As an omega, he was instinctively drawn the pheromones of his mate. Dale was his mate’s son, and Stannis found his previous irritation stifled by Dale’s aroma. His good son was soon swarmed by Stannis' children dashing over to their half-brother’s side.

Calen greeted Stannis with the natural bubbliness the Baratheon had come to associate him with. Dale had met the omega on one of his travels, and since their mating, Calen never failed to join his husband on an adventure. It seemed that Seaworth men had a taste for naval-orientated omegas.

“How are you, Lord Stannis? It is a shame you could not join us! Please, you and Davos must come with us on our next exploration. Dale and I have plans to travel to Essos soon.”

His youth was tiresome by itself. Stannis denied his requests. “I have my duties here.”

Calen pouted. “Oh.” The omega brightened up at once. “Oh, well whenever you change your mind, you must tell us! And it must be soon. Travel during autumn is absolutely hellish!”

As a stormland boy, Stannis understood the treacherous storms that occurred during the autumn and winter. He told Calen that the temptation never occurred to him. While he was an experienced naval officer, Stannis never acquired a desire to explore foreign and distant lands. He much preferred the home front. Davos shared a similar regard for staying still, having spent so much of his youth moving from bay to shore and shore to sea.

Davos ended their conversation by claiming he and his sons planned to head to a tavern to celebrate their safe return. Stannis frowned upon such crude celebrations, but he could not refuse his husband’s request. Davos gave him another unsolicited kiss, which Stannis denied ever gleefully indulging in. Davos promised his fidelity, as he always did when he would be in the company of omegas without Stannis—truth be told, Stannis understood that his honorable husband would never stray from their marriage bed, but the assurance was appreciated.

With the alpha men making their departure to the city, Stannis took his children back to the castle for their lessons. Devan complained about being left out of their festivities.

“Is it because I’m an omega?” He asked.

Shireen smiled soothingly. “That is not the case. If it were, wouldn’t I have gone with them?”

Devan scowled. “You’re too young!”

“As are you,” Stannis replied. 

Shireen frowned at his aggression. Stannis had seen a similar expression on his brother’s face whenever he disobeyed him—discretely. As the only alpha in her litter, Shireen had grown accustomed to her younger brothers’ submission; in return, she provided a solace for their moods and instructions for their uncertainty. She was rarely met with disobedience, but with Devan’s adulthood approaching, there would be disagreements in the future. Stannis will have Davos lecture her later on the matter. The Baratheon couldn’t risk her misusing her alpha’s order on her siblings.

“Those establishments are no place for a proper omega,” Stannis explained. They were filled with whores and gold-hunters. He had enough trouble keeping his children from the poor influences of the castle—a tavern would ruin Devan’s innocence.  

“Calen can join them,” Devan protested.

“Calen is not a proper omega.” Stannis paused after he realized the implication of his words. “His presence is an abnormality, one you should not be concerned with,” Stannis scolded. “We will have dinner tomorrow, and it will be a private affair. For now, you have your etiquette lessons. The septa is waiting.”

Devan grumbled. “Why must I attend those lessons? I would rather be holding a sword.”

“Your swords lessons are tomorrow,” Stannis reminded. “And it is important for an omega to take those lessons to secure a proper husband. You must be the partner you hope to attain,” Stannis instructed. “How is your husband supposed to behave righteously if you do not display a flattering example?”

“Mama,” Steffon murmured. The five-year-old was clinging to Stannis’ shirt. “What is a ‘proper’ husband?”

Stannis turned serious. “A proper husband is someone who is honorable and reliable, who will protect and defend his family at any cost, and most important of all, he or she is dedicated to their duty. You should never aspire for anything less.”

“That removes Joffrey from the running,” Shireen quipped.

The children erupted into giggles.

Stannis’ thin lips twitched. He opened the door and ushered Devan in. While holding onto Steffon and clutching the young Stannis’ hand, he led Shireen to her lessons with maester Pylos. Unlike her brother, she practically skipped to the room. Stannis requested an assistant for Cressen after the maester was downridden with illness a month ago. It hurt Stannis’ heart to think so, but his surrogate father was aware that Pylos was to be his replacement upon death. He bared little ill-will towards the young man, though there were incidents where he could not hide his distraught. 

Shireen has been particularly welcoming towards the newest member of their household, finding the smart and diligent omega charming. She developed a crush, and even Stannis, who was normally so blind to such dealings, was not surprised when she asked if a ‘proper’ spouse needed to be noble.

“Father was a crabber’s son,” Shireen reminded.

“He is,” Stannis agreed. He answered honestly. “No, a proper husband does not need to be noble.” He rested his hand on her head and stroked her hair. Davos told him that touch tended to soothe children. Stannis wondered about the legitimacy of the statement—having been physically neglected for most of his childhood. He realized his husband was right soon after Devan was born. “Shireen, no child of mine will ever have to marry someone they do not love.”

Shireen grinned. Their moment was ruined by an unwelcomed eavesdropper. 

“How touching,” a voice behind them noted. “If only all mothers shared your sentiment.”

The four Baratheons turned to see the queen walking down the halls with her vibrant robes and long, golden hair. Few omegas could match the beauty of Cersei Lannister. For the longest time, Stannis remembered being envious of his brother’s wife. She was a sight no matter what scowl made its way to her face, and so many were frequent travelers.

“My queen,” Stannis addressed.

Cersei smiled with sharp teeth and a degree of smugness Stannis only a Lannister could possess. “I overheard your conversation. I trust your husband shares the same sentiment?”

“He does,” Stannis answered, though they never discussed the issue.

 “How fortunate you are to have married so far below your station. You never have to worry about the same things us well-wedded omegas do.”

“My queen, I cannot demand anything of my children that I have avoided.”

Cersei chuckled. “Yes, and your children must learn from your example.” She glanced over at Steffon and young Stannis while overlooking Shireen. Stannis remembered how Davos had commented on the antipathy Cersei directed towards female alphas. “He cannot leave you, he cannot disobey you, not with your title or wealth. I doubt I’ve ever looked at an omega that was freer.”

Stannis hated this—the games, the double-speak. He tightened his grip on his son. The Master of ships had no patience for quips or subtext, and he had less tolerance for the Queen's manure-soaked tongue.

“My queen,” Stannis explained. “You misunderstand. My husband may be lowborn, but his position in my life is beyond earthly constraints. When we married, I made an oath to serve him—an oath that transcends the vow he made for me. While my standing may be greater than his by law, he is without a doubt the leader of my heart and hearth, the sire of my children, and my king. I will follow his rule as the doctrine of wifely duties command, and in turn, he shall reward me with his diligence and devotion. There is no greater joy a wife can receive.”

Cersei pursed her lips in dissatisfaction. Stannis took great pride in expunging her haughtiness from the conversation. “You seem to be busy,” Cersei noted. “I’ll leave you to your children.”

“I will, my queen.”

Not one to leave without the last word, Cersei offered a lingering comment. “And do not hesitate to use our ravens to send towards Cape Wrath. I’m sure their mother will be happy to hear her children have made it back to shore safely. It is the least you can do for her.”

The comment stung, but Stannis continued to walk without turning back. When they were out of hearing distance, Shireen made her feelings known.

“I don’t like her.”

 “No one likes her.” Stannis knocked on the door to Maester Pylos’ quarters. Before he let her inside, Stannis turned to his only daughter. “Take her as a tale of caution. Alphas who allow their brains to rot have no sense to turn down omegas like her.”  

Shireen blanched, and her greyscale became more noticeable with her horror. She ran into the room with a mind burning for fact. With Shireen and Devan at their lessons, Stannis figured he could afford a short snack and a reading with his two youngest sons. They tended to fall asleep with the sound of his voice.

Stannis plans were cut short as soon as he opened his book. A  chambermaid came bursting in, declaring there was a scandal involving his little brother.

***

Renly Baratheon spent a good portion of his time listening to his older yell about his _disgraceful activities_ and how he behavior was “worthy of one-legged harlot desperate for coin.”

“Do not roll your eyes at me, Renly.”

Renly rolled his eyes. “Since when have you developed a taste for theatrics?”

“I am not _theatrical_ ,” Stannis hissed. “Not when you’re caught sucking cock in a sept! Have you no shame?”

“I was not sucking cock,” Renly defended. “Not yet, at least.”

“Renly, do not play with me!”

Renly crossed his arms and legs in petulance. “Brother, my liaisons with my betrothed should be no concern to you. Besides, you cannot say you’ve never fucked in a sept before?”

Stannis sputtered out his response with a beet-red face. “I am a married omega! The relations I share with my husband are private—kept sacred between the bounds of our marriage.”

Renly giggled childishly. “Ah, so you have engaged there. How daring! I guess it’s true what they say of proper omegas.”

Stannis slammed his fist on the table. “Renly, I am at my wit’s end! It is time you stop this farce and wed Ser Loras as intended!”

“I refuse,” Renly told him. He spoke with the stubbornness only a stag could muster.

“Renly,” Stannis warned. “I am warning you. You have gotten out of control since your blossoming, and half the city is already expunging tales of you _fucking_ your way through the kingdom.”

“Why, I never thought I would ever hear you use such coarse language. It seems like Ser Davos has quite the effect on you.” Renly had the audacity to grin. “Rest assured, those rumors hold no truth. I have only allowed Ser Loras to knot me and trust me, once you’ve tasted an actual knight’s cock, nothing ever compares.”

“Stop acting like some bare-titted tart!” Stannis burned furiously with anger and embarrassment. Renly found the look entirely familiar, but amusing nonetheless. “I have been good to you, Renly. Robert and I have never demanded you marry someone you did not care for no matter how many offers that have been extended. You have chosen Ser Loras. We have approved. It is time for you to set a date and go through with the ceremony, once and for all!”

Renly wanted to retort that Robert cared nothing for him, so his approval meant nothing for him. He also wanted to point out that no matter how many offers he received, being pursued by a member of the Tyrell family, a lauded knight and arguably the most handsome man in the kingdom, was far better than anything the two of them could have mustered.

“Ser Loras and I will wed when we are ready and not a moment earlier. For now, we intend to thoroughly enjoy our engagement.”

Stannis glared. “You are almost twenty, Renly. Why are you so opposed to marriage? Have you not proclaimed your love for the Tyrell? Is there something amidst I should be aware of?”

Stannis waited for a response. This time, it was Renly’s turn to frown. The question catalyzed a moment of candidness within the youngest Baratheon lord.

“I love Loras,” Renly admitted. “I want to continue loving him. Marriage is a disease. It turns alphas into fat slobs and omegas into prattling crones who act more like their husbands’ guards than their lovers. I don’t want us to become like those alphas and omegas, waiting for their partners to die so that they can taste the edge of freedom again.”

“Marriage is not a cage, it is a house,” Stannis defended. “Davos—”

“Weren’t you the one who taught me to never value an exception as a rule?” Renly mocked. “You and Davos are happy, yes. But what about Cersei and Robert? Prince Doran and his wife? Lord Stark and Lady Tully? He is the most honorable man in the kingdom, and even he is capable of betrayal. I can list hundreds of doomed unions, ranging all the way from the flaming desserts of Dorne to the winters of the North. Marriages made for politics, gold, _love_ —that have dried up like seasonings and scents.” Renly stood up. “I won’t let that happen to Loras and me.”

“Marriage takes effort,” Stannis stressed. “You are taking the coward’s way out.”

Renly glared back. “Why are you so insistent on our union? Don’t you have your children to mind?”

“It is because of my children that I must correct your behavior!” Stannis shouted. “I have three omega boys, all of whom look up to their uncle. Devan will enter his heat in a few years, and I intend for him to marry a man of worth.” By some twisted fortune, his eldest son seemed to have inherited Davos’ charm and the unnatural prettiness of his deceased great-grandmother. “I do not need your influence affecting them.”

“You don’t want them to become whores,” Renly sneered. “Because that’s what you think of me, isn’t it?” Renly took a step forward so that his nose was almost rubbing against his brother’s. “Let me remind you that by the time you and Davos were at the sept, your white shirt was stained and snapping open around your belly!”

Stannis pushed his little brother away, causing the omega to lose his footing and stumble. Stannis turned his heel and walked away. He was too hot to think properly.

Renly glared; he could never stand his older brother’s righteous jabbering. As the middle Baratheon stormed out of the room, he yelled at him how shocking it was to find Stannis happy. “It was a trial and a half finding someone to marry you. Even now, we count the days where Ser Davos regains sense and tires of your solemnity!”

Stannis stormed out of the room before Renly could see how deep his words cut. Guilt washed over the Lord of Storm’s End when his older brother left. He sunk to his seat. Like a child, he tried to justify his cruelty. Stannis had no right to judge him. He told himself that his brother deserved it for his hypocrisy. At least he never went so far as to test fate with a bastard—it was only luck that they managed to birth Devan a month after the wedding.

***

Stannis’ mood remained sullen all throughout the night, affecting his children’s sleep dearly. It got to the point where he requested Maester Cressen take over his parental duties while he retired to bed. He woke up from slumber hours past midnight by his husband’s drunk stagger into their bed. Stannis snapped at his pissed presence and scolded himself on his disrespect. To recover from his moment of weakness, he begrudgingly got up and helped Davos to bed. As he was undressing him, Davos clutched onto his hands.

“Young man, I am flattered,” he slurred. Stannis winced at the smell. Davos reeked of a brewery. “But I cannot buy your cunt for the night.”

“Davos—”

“No!” Davos shook his head, adding to his nausea. He groaned miserably. "I must leave." Stannis helped lay him on the bed. “ I must return to my wife…He is…He is…waiting for me…”

Stannis looked at his husband. Finally, after a few more seconds of staring, the room was empty except for the echoing of his snores. Stannis, finding the environment freeing, offered a small, unseen smile in the night. He kissed his husband and delighted how the shroud of darkness kept them safe. He pulled the covers over his form and went to sleep.

***

The next day was a day of promise—Shireen foreshadowed goodness with the bright skies and blinding sun. Her brothers and father were nursing a tumultuous hangover, which usually resulted in her mother’s absence from the table. The morning was different; her mother was present and seemed more accommodating than usual. He dropped Shireen off at her archery lessons and agreed to a trial period where Devan was allowed to train with the alphas his age. Stannis claimed it was time he learned how to spar with them—death did not check for sex when he arrived.

Shireen continued to score splendidly with her arrow and made sure to keep an eye on her older brother as she did so. When their mother announced the change in policy, she considered protesting but found it more prudent to keep silent.

Devan was doing well, but many of his peers were on the cusp of a rut. Their tutors, knights from around the continent, were present for instruction. It was an extravagance, but one that was expected since the prince was included in the group. Shireen would have no problem with them if it weren’t for how frustratingly fixated they were on her older brother. Shireen noticed how all Devan’s peers touched him for a second longer than necessary, petted his hair and smiled at him with their teeth bared. Joffrey was especially physical. He bragged about his skill, all while swinging his sword sloppily.

Shireen clutched onto her bow with a little more force than necessary when she saw the prince press his palm against Devan’s cheek. Her hand moved to grab an arrow without her knowledge and somehow was strung on its own. It wasn’t until Ser Aron Santagar, master-at-arms of the Red Keep, grabbed her wrist did she realize what she was doing.

“Where were you planning on aiming that, stone girl?”

Shireen flushed with embarrassment. She bowed her head respectfully. “Nothing, Ser Aron. I was stretching my fingers.”

Aron pursed his lips. He glanced over at the direction Shireen was staring at, and without warning, his eyes widened, and he marched over without a word. Shireen was surprised by the sudden shift in persona. She turned around, and the sight had her following her master-at-arms furiously.

Joffrey had his hands all over her brother, groping him without permission and laughing as his band of sycophants circled him like sharks in the water. 

“Let go of me!” Her brother shouted. “You self-entitled twat!”

Joffrey cackled as the knights watched from a distance. They were reluctant to stop the prince. If questioned, they could always claim ignorance. He’s an omega, one would say. He needs to learn to defend himself. Another would claim that it was all in good fun, that a pretty omega couldn’t be surrounded by alphas and not expect to be played with.

Aron grabbed Devan from the folds of molestation and pushed him behind his back for safe keeping. Before Joffrey could protest his loss of a toy, Shireen acted. She punched him square in the jaw.

“You stupid bitch!” He hissed. “I will kill you! You—”

Shireen head-butted him before another cuss could be uttered. A benefit of her Greyscale was the stony dexterity—half of her face was as hard as rock. The roughness broke flesh and sent Joffrey tumbling to the ground with a torn face. Being half a decade younger than Joffrey and female meant that Shireen would always be at a physical disadvantage with male alphas. Being a Baratheon and a Seaworth meant she was willing to take the risk.

Before the two came to actual blows, several knights came to Joffrey’s defense while Ser Aron pulled Shireen aside and nestled her to her brother’s side. She ushered the omega away, ignoring how Joffrey screamed vile promises in her direction. Aron was throwing a fit at the other knights—while he was loyal to the royal family, he was also an honest man and did approve of the blindness in cowardice.

***

The news traveled immediately to the small council meeting, where Stannis was discussing issues with their naval budget and the possibility of expanding their force to include a trading sector. The dull matter did not interest the king, resulting in his frequent absence. Just as they were about to put the deal to a vote, a messenger stormed in. He walked over to Lord Stannis in a hurry, whispering about the matter in loud, hushed whispers.

Stannis pardoned himself calmly and as soon as he left the room, dashed over to the throne room where the verdict would be made. Jon Arryn followed as his presence was recommended with trials revolving the royal family. Stannis paid him no mind. His children were waiting, and so was his husband.  When he arrived, Shireen and Devan offered an explanation with great speed. For clarification, he turned to Davos, who explained the matter with great solemnity. His fists were tight and placed protectively on their son. After several minutes of anticipation, the royal family followed with equal strife. Cersei was no less happy about the incident.

“You beastly girl!” Cersei shouted at Shireen upon sight. “How dare you attack my son like some vicious mongrel!” She marched over to the former Greyscale victim. Shireen flinched and huddled away in defense. Cersei never made it within an arm’s distance as Stannis stepped in her way.

“My daughter’s crime falls short of your son’s actions. If you touch her without a verdict, we will have an issue that mirrors them.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “No one would think of touching your daughter.”

“Yet everyone dreams of striking your son,” Davos countered. He stood up and faced Cersei, much to her revulsion. No one else would dare to face the queen with such disrespect, but Davos was incensed by the circumstances. “Did you hear what your son did? How he touched my child?”

Cersei snarled. “How dare you speak to me that way? I am the queen!”

“And no one displays outrage quite like yourself,” Davos mock praised. “That does not change the fact that a crime was committed against my son and my daughter protected him the only way she could.”

“She struck him without provocation. He did nothing wrong!”

“That is a lie,” Stannis declared. “My daughter would never do such a thing!”

“What is going on here?” The king arrived with a stumble made from drink. Stannis groaned at his state, knowing only his brother could be drunk before midday.

“Your grace—”

“Your niece tried to disfigure Joffrey,” Cersei seethed out. “If you speak with the knights, they would declare that the attack was unprovoked. A moment of madness caused by the lingering Greyscale.” 

“Your knights allowed such an incident to occur out of fear and greed,” Davos hissed. “I may be lowborn, but I know corruption transcends titles.”

Jon Arryn stepped in. “Please, Ser Davos, we must hear both stories.”

“There are no stories, only one truth. My daughter,” Stannis clarified. “Witnessed your son assaulting my eldest child and acted accordingly. There was no madness in it. Ser Aron will testify on my behalf if you need a witness.”

The king took a swig of his wine. “So we have a dozen fucking witnesses, two angry mothers,” Robert turned to Joffrey, who was whimpering next to his mother’s skirts. “And a beaten prince who couldn’t even defend himself against a little girl.”

Joffrey avoided his eyes.

Robert scoffed at his weakness. He turned to his Hand. “What do you propose?”

“You refuse to take the word of a prince over the child of a pirate?” Cersei hissed.

 “Smuggler,” Davos pointed out.

Robert nodded, almost amused by the correction, and returned his attention to the Lord of the Vale.

Jon frowned. “If what they are saying is true and all the witnesses give contradictory statements, it would be best to settle the matter here rather than make the issue public. We know nothing, except that the prince was attacked.”

Stannis’s teeth made a horrid gashing sound. Doom trickled in his empty belly. “Shireen will be disciplined for her aggression,” he promised. “She will be taught to control her anger, but I will not have her punished for a crime your son committed.”

“A supposed crime that you cannot prove,” Cersei sneered.

“Quiet, woman!” Robert snapped. He transferred his attention to his brother. “What was your son doing training with alphas?”

Stannis glared at his brother. “He was learning swordsmanship with the knights. He’s gotten to the appropriate age.”

“He is an omega.”

“So am I,” Stannis reminded. “And I trained with Ser Gawen, same as you.” Stannis took a step forward. “I was the one who beat him and incarcerated him when you needed me to hold Storm’s End. I was the one who controlled your naval fleet when the Greyjoys rebel. My son is an omega, and like all my sons, they will learn how to use a sword.”

“Stubborn broad you are.” Robert’s lips twitched. “But omegas don’t always turn out like you.”

If it was meant to be a joke, Davos did not appreciate it. The lowborn lord succumbed to his temper and stomped towards the prince. He grabbed the golden lion by the collar and pulled him forward.

“What are you doing?” Cersei screeched. Everyone stood up to stop him, but Davos threw him to the ground before he was guilty of treason.

“Listen here, M'lord,” Davos growled out. “I would rather be hanged with my balls blue and my pants mired in shit than let you lay a finger on my son. If you touch any of my children again, I will drown you with the rest of the sewage, prince or not.”

“How dare you?” Cersei screeched.

The aggression was the final straw. Robert stood on his feet and ordered everyone to leave the room except for his brother. Jon Arryn protested against letting the matter leave unsettled, but Robert made it clear there was no issue to bury. “Leave,” he ordered. “This is an issue I’ll take care of with my brother.”

Cersei hissed in disapproval. “He is my son, and I intend to be present—!”

“You want to have an opinion. Then fucking do something of worth. Like, give me a child with the balls to fight a little girl. At least, my brother has accomplished that much.”  

The comment took Cersei by surprise before turning her into a foaming harpy. She grabbed Joffrey and escaped her husband’s guidance. Davos followed with his kids, but not before sending Stannis a look of concern. Stannis nodded him off.

When they were alone, the mood transformed from a blistering battlefield to a chilling tundra. Robert was pouring another glass of wine in his goblet. He offered one to Stannis, who turned down the offer.

“Bad manners to refuse a king.” Robert handed him a cup regardless.

“It is still day,” Stannis scolded. He stared at the wine without taking a sip. “Joffrey is guilty.”

“Strong accusation. Were you there?” Robert chuckled.

Stannis frowned. “No,” he admitted. “But they’re Davos’ children. I know any son or daughter of his could never be cruel or vicious.”

With a heavy sigh, Robert spoke. “You honorable men and your children.”  He sat down and drank his wine. “I got a letter from Winterfell today.”

Stannis sighed. “What did Lord Stark want?” He asked. Stannis felt compelled to drink the wine now. He hated hearing stories about Ned Stark, the man Robert always wanted as a brother. Instead, he got Stannis. Boring, dull, _omega_ Stannis.

“He asked me to legitimize his bastard—you’ve heard him? Jon Snow.” Robert chuckled. “He requested I keep it a secret until the creed was drawn.”

Stannis frowned. “Why? Does he expect Lady Stark to protest?”  

Robert shook his head. “Worried about his lovely little crannogman throwing a fit. Lord Reed was never fond of me.”

“Shocking,” Stannis muttered dryly. 

Robert laughed as loud as his battle cry.

“He doesn’t think I have a right to give his child a name.” Robert poured another glass. “Still doesn’t think I’m king. Then, there’s the matter of which family he’ll be a part of. Ned will request he be turned into a Stark and Howland will have none of that. He'll insist he's a Reed. I'll say he's a Stark and my balls wil shrivel up the next day. Never fuck with a crannogman, Stannis. It’s a messy situation.”

“And how is relevant to me?”

Robert paused. He poured more wine into Stannis’ cup despite his protests. “There’s a way he speaks of his bastard that is different from his other children. Ned has never been a delicate man but he loves that child more than anything in the world. I thought it odd—until I see the way you look at your sons and daughter.” Robert sat beside Stannis this time. “The children of someone you love. I wonder if I could muster the same warmth had Lyanna bore our children as intended. I wonder,” he stressed. “If it was possible to love my son instead of being repulsed by the sight of him.”

“Robert—”

The king wrapped his arm around Stannis and rested his hand on his brother’s waist. Stannis remained still. “I remember how sweet you smelled during your heat. No one would suspect the truth.” Robert leaned in. “How I beat your guard bloody while your cunt dripped for every alpha in sight? Father nearly knocked my nose off when I grabbed you, pushed you down like a bitch. You fought hard. Always have when your hole was on the line. Does your husband know?”

Stannis tried to push him away. “I don’t keep secrets from Davos.”

Robert was drunk. His hand stroked Stannis’ ribs. “Good thing mother and father sent me away, less we return to our filthy Targaryen roots.” He drew closer. “I should have married you. Your daughter has our mother’s face—half of it at least. _A pretty, strong jaw._ And those eyes, _our father’s eyes_ —if I could see our father’s eyes, I might have tried to love our sons and daughters.”

Robert was an alpha who took as he pleased. He used his free hand to grab Stannis’ face and push their lips together. Stannis fought him off without hesitation. It was struggle, for even ailed by ale and weight, he was a dominant alpha and one whose strength was reserved for the hunt. Yet, Stannis was well-trained and kept his body prepared for assault. When he escaped from Robert’s arms, he hit his brother with great force. Stannis was neither surprised nor frightened when Robert struck back. The red print glowed on his skin—he would bruise without a doubt.

Robert’s sobriety came back to him in a flash but soon disappeared as the drink overpowered his senses again. Stannis glared hatefully at his brother. “You are the worse of men!” Stannis growled. “You, your son, your wife—the lot of you are sickened with immorality.” Stannis stormed off to the door. Before he left, he told Robert his plans. “I will take my family to Dragonstone—the land you _awarded_ me after I held Storm’s End _for you_. We will settle there and return when the heat of this day is gone.”   
***

When Stannis returned to his quarters, he did not hesitate to tell his family of their move. He made it clear it was temporary but neither his good children nor his blood ones complained. Calen assisted in their packing, running around like a monkey, throwing clothes into trunks and dancing as he placed their toys inside. They were interrupted an hour in by a knock on the door. Stannis doubted it was his brother, but it was bad manners not to greet whatever foolish guest he received.

The worn and wearied Lord Arryn stood at the door. He seemed almost surprised to have Stannis greet him. “May I come in?” He asked.

Stannis hesitated for a moment before paying the Hand his due respects. “Of course.”

Stannis let his brother’s foster father inside and asked for Calen and Dale to shuffle their children elsewhere. The kids were obedient. Bowing at the sight of the Hand before making their way outside the room. Davos made them tea while they left.

“I heard you are leaving for Dragonstone. Any thoughts on a date?”

“As soon as possible,” Stannis revealed. “I want to distance myself from the royal family.”

Jon sighed. “I heard you got into another row with the king.”   

Stannis’ lips became a little more than a line at reminder.

“The king’s behavior is one of the many factors resulting in my leave,” Stannis answered. “His inability to raise his children properly is another.”

There was pause and overall look of approval on Lord Arryn’s face. “Ah, yes, well your daughter is a courageous girl—specially to attack the prince so boldly.”

“Our daughter _defended_ our son,” Davos clarified. He placed the tea on the table, one in front Lord Arryn and two side by side from each other for him and his wife. “Had Devan not been outnumbered; he would have held his own quite well.”

Jon nodded. “I heard of your children’s accomplishments in detail. It is impressive.” He glanced over at where Stannis’ sons and daughter retreated. “Do they all intend to hold a sword?”

“They will be taught the bare minimum,” Stannis answered. “And if it is what they desire, they may further their studies in the future.”

“Devan wishes to be a knight,” Davos mentioned fondly. “I think he will look splendid in armor.”

“An omega knight is a rarity, is it not?”

“But they exist,” Davos countered. “And are as fierce as any alpha.”

“Have you found a lord for him to squire for?” Jon asked his fellow lord. He never failed to be cordial to Stannis, but he rarely addressed Davos personally.

“We would like to keep him close,” Stannis revealed. “But with our changing locations, it is unknown whether that means a house from Dragonstone or a lord from the crownlands.”

Jon nodded. “And what of fostering? Have you considered your options in that regard?”

“Shireen remains content within our house,” Stannis answered. “When she is old enough, her brothers intend to bring her on their travels.”

Jon was surprised by the proposal. “You don’t find such plans threatening? She is your heir!”

“Shireen can handle herself,” Davos told him proudly. “We believe the strength of character can only exercise through tribulations.”  

Jon was visibly impressed. “May I be blunt with you, Lord Stannis?”

“I’d prefer it.”

Jon glanced around the room. “You must keep this a secret from my wife.”

“That seems to be a custom in the Vale.”

Jon gave him a bewildered expression.

“I heard from the king that Lord Stark intends to legitimize his bastard—all without the knowledge of Lord Reed.”

Jon grimaced. “It is a private matter that requires further discussion.”

“I do wonder why the boy’s mother is not being included in that discussion,” Davos quipped. “Surely he should have a say in his child’s future.”

Jon glanced between the Seaworth-Baratheon duo. “Sometimes secrecy is necessary for the good of our children.”

“We do not keep secrets from each other,” Davos disagreed. “Especially in regards to our children.”

“No,” Stannis agreed. Before they could shame Jon further, Stannis returned to the point of debate. “But for the sake of time, continue your request. We will not speak a word to your wife.”

Jon sighed, though his relief was significantly lessened. “It is in regards to my son, Robert. As you’ve noticed, he is a sickly child and many maesters have agreed that unless a change is made to his upbringing, he will not live to adulthood. I have discussed this in depth with my maester—”

“But not your wife?” Davos asked.

“And they’ve told me that _my wife_ may be responsible for his stunted growth,” Jon defended. “He is not yet weaned from the breast.  He is plagued with seizures and has leeches as a second skin. The medicine he uses are toxic. If he is to be my heir, I need him to be beyond a ghost of a child. I need him strong.” Jon stared at Stannis’ eyes. Davos took his wife’s hand at once and intertwined their fingers.

Davos had seen that look before and it is the look of adoration.

“Your daughter was once doomed to die. I saw how hard you fought for her. How adamant you were against sending her to live with stone men. You ordered all the maesters in the country, the apothecaries, and even called upon a hedge witch or two for assistance. She lives now, a fierce heiress to your lands, because of your hands. I want you to do the same for my son.” Jon reached out to touch Stannis’ hands but were quickly swatted away by Davos. His husband’s touch reminded Stannis of his situation.

“I am not opposed to fostering Robert in my home,” Stannis agreed. “But I will not tolerate weakness in my house. All of our children adhere to strict guidelines. I will not tolerate tantrums or foolishness, nor will I give him ease for his condition.” He remembered the boy’s rambunctious behavior in court and how the child once attempted to attack his maester during a difficult lesson.

Jon agreed readily. “I trust you, Lord Stannis, and the children you’ve raised are proof of your skill in childrearing.”

“You have my husband to thank for that,” Stannis stated without shame. For some, it was a comment of fealty people would expect from a proper wife. For Stannis, it was both a customary note and the truth. He doubted he could raise such beautiful children if they did not come from Davos’ seed.

Davos chuckled. “My wife gives me too much credit. He thinks the only things he gave our children is their coloring and title.”

Davos kissed his wife then, and when they turned to look at the Lord of the Vale, they’ve noticed that Jon’s face was plastered with a frown. 

“Lord Stannis, do all your children have dark hair and blue eyes?”

The question was odd, but Stannis found no reason to stay silent. “They do.”

“And you, Lord Davos? Do they all share your dark hair?”

Davos shook his head. “Two of my boys have their mother’s coloring. My first wife has auburn hair.” He smiled at Stannis. “Though I cannot complain. I’ve always been fond of blue—it’s like I’ve never left the sea.”   

Like a man in a trance, Jon stood up. “Yes, well I thank you for your time. We can discuss the details of Robert’s fostering when you return. I trust there will be plenty to unravel by then.”

***  

By morning, half of the stuff was packed and ready to return to Dragonstone. The children were sent to their lessons regardless of the move, while Davos was at the harbor preparing a ship and securing ration. They would be able to leave at the end of the week. Calen assisted Stannis in finalizing the last of the details, such as securing someone to act as Master of ships in his stead and increasing the number of ravens that can fly to Dragonstone. Calen was surprisingly efficient in managing his affairs—but what was most surprising was his reading capabilities.

“I never knew you were literate,” Stannis noted. “How did you learn to read?” Stannis did not mean it as an insult, but as a noteworthy observation.

Calen laughed. “All the people in my land are taught words, my lord. It’s a useful ability.”

Stannis agreed. “I’ve considered having Maester Pylos teach my husband the skill.”

“A wonderful idea!” Calen cooed. Stannis had never seen the boy upset; his cheeriness was almost terrifying. “Dale has told me how grateful he was when you asked Maester Cressen to teach him letters.”

“He was a fast learner,” Stannis remembered. “And hopefully it will help him in the future.”

“As Master of ships?” Calen suggested. He giggled at Stannis’ surprised expression. “I heard from Dale about the king’s reaction of his presence. At first, I assumed he was infuriated over your disregard, but after last night, I realized that was not the case.”

Stannis paused. A moment of silence swept the room. “What do you mean?”

Calen had decency to appear apologetic. “You don’t keep secrets from your spouse and neither does mine. He told me about the kiss, between you and the king.” 

Stannis’ face burned with shame but Calen was certainly more at ease. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? His behavior towards you this entire time.”

“What?”

Calen giggled. “All these years of neglect and ignorance, when he really could not stand the sight of you bearing the mark of an alpha that wasn’t him.”

Stannis swallowed a knot in his throat. “Last night was a moment of madness. He allowed my marriage from the start.”  

“But did he think you would be happy? The wife of a crabber’s son? The most righteous omega in the kingdom wedded to a smuggler?” Calen’s voice was laced with sugary suggestions. “He wanted you as miserable as him, perhaps even to strengthen his hold on you.” Calen closed the trunk and lifted it on the floor. It was a surprising show of strength for one so small. “Seeing how much you doted on Dale despite not birthing him must have made him incensed. After all, if you care for a child that is not your own simply because he shared the blood of your husband, it must be true love. Love the king will never receive.”  

Stannis tried to dismiss Calen’s insinuations. “You are a child, what do you know?”

“Nothing, my lord.” Calen was not insulted by the remark. “I am merely an observer. I know the king is not an honorable man; he may be friends with Lord Stark but opposite forces tend to attract.”

Stannis scoffed. Lord Stark’s name never failed to rile him up. “Lord Stark is not as honorable as he claims.”

Calen chuckled. “Do you speak of his bastard, Lord Stannis?”

“His bastard,” Stannis agreed. “And his lies. He keeps things from the man he loves. I would never disregard Davos’ counsel the way he has.”

 “What are you talking about?”

Stannis should not reveal such private details, but he was tired of listening to the praise for Winterfell’s lord. If the man would be so devious to go behind his lover’s back, then a little gossip is a rather weak punishment. “Lord Stark plans to legitimize his bastard’s son without the knowledge of the boy’s mother.”

The blow was visible on Calen’s face. “Is that true?”

“He sent a letter to the king yesterday,” Stannis revealed. “Lord Reed has  opposed the action for numerous reasons. That’s why Lord Stark wishes to keep it a secret.”

“Oh? Is that so? Keeping a secret from a crannogman is notoriously difficult.” Dale’s wife became oddly calm—a contrast to his normally upbeat mood. His smile remained but there was mystery to his grin.  

Stannis nodded. “So I’ve heard.”

"Anyways," Calen changed the subject at once. He stopped working on his next activity to suggest another alternative action. “Since Robert is intent on abusing your loyalty, why do you not take advantage of your rights?”

Stannis made his confusion known. “I don’t understand.”

“You were training Dale to act as Master of ships in your stead; surely he can take your place while you are at Dragonstone.”

Stannis frowned. “The king disapproved of that option.”

“The king is indebted to you—after your silence on last night’s violation,” Calen insisted. “Dale is an accomplished captain who fought against a legendary fleet in the Greyjoy Rebellion. Surely a naval officer of his skill is favorable choice as your stand in.” He licked his lips. “He is far more suited for the role than your brother is as Master of laws.”

The last line lubricated the suggestion into Stannis’ head. “I will talk to the king and Davos before I leave.” He reminded Calen of an important detail. “This will put your travel plans to halt.”

“Temporarily,” Calen denied. “We will be back to our seafaring ways upon your return. It’ll make our hearts grow fonder.” Calen bowed respectfully. “I will see how my husband takes the news.”  

Stannis excused him.

As soon as the door closed, Calen sped up his steps towards Maester Pycelle’s quarters. The old man was performing his duties, leaving his ravens unattended for. Calen took the one that traveled to White Harbor out its cage and wrote his message to House Manderly. He made sure to cast an enchantment declaring the only receiver meant for the letter could see its contents. When the raven arrived to their castle, Lord Manderly would send a messenger to the Neck and Howland would find out about his lover’s deviousness. Meanwhile, he would keep an eye out in King’s Landing.

Calen sent the raven out of the window. Lord Pycelle would no doubt be aware of the missing bird but Calen was a relatively unimportant actor in the game of thrones. No one would suspect him. His purpose in King’s Landing was to keep his lord informed. After today, he would retreat to the shadows as he always had.

No one kept a secret from a crannogman. Lord Stark should have known that before he tried.

***

The messenger came to the Neck a day after Howland returned to Greywater Watch. When Lord Reed read the contents, he was livid. There was a reason Howland avoided Jon’s legitimacy for so long, and it had little to do with the excuse he gave Ned. Tearing up the letter, Howland put on his riding clothes and stormed into his Benjen’s room. He told his husband that he will be leaving for Winterfell at once. 

“And you are going to King’s Landing.”

Benjen raised an eyebrow. “What is this about?”

“Ned has sent a letter to the king asking for Jon’s legitimacy.”

Benjen stared at him oddly. "And what is the issue in that?"

Howland threw Benjen’s cloak at him. It was followed by a jerkin, pants, and a shirt. The younger man caught them all with his head.  “Ned did not come to this decision without prompting. Something happened that made him act without my consent.”

“He could simply be fulfilling an old wish of his,” Benjen reminded. “He’s always wanted to make Jon a Stark.”

“You legitimize an alpha for an heir. You legitimize an omega for a marriage.” Howland clenched his fist so hard it was bleeding. “If Jon is legitimized, it makes him the eldest omega and therefore obligated to marry first. His options are expanded. He can marry anyone, including an heir to Great House.” Howland snarled. “ _An heir that isn’t Robb_.”

Howland took a step forward. He bent down onto the ground so that he could face Benjen properly and out of nowhere, pulled his spouse further with a great feat of strength. His fingers dug into his face. His eyes were gleaming with madness.

“For fifteen years, I have toiled endlessly with two purposes in mind. Having your brother as my husband again and taking vengeance on the people who tore us apart. _Fifteen fucking years_ I put into this plan. I have improvised and struggled, I have made alterations that would make the unsullied tear off their limbs in frustration. I asked the gods what they wanted to provide me with the strength and their answer was unanimous.” Howland let go of Benjen. “My son is the key to victory, anyone who has him will gain the throne. The Kings in the North have always been Starks; if they intend to rule, then Robb must marry Jon.”

“My brother will never betray the king.”

“He won’t be king for much longer.”

“Howland,” Benjen snapped. “I’ve warn you about saying that.”  

“Secession begins with tragedy and one is already in the works. The cranks on the clocks are spinning and the sundial is marking the start of a new day,” Howland whispered. “The falcons are ready to swarm the skies and once they are in the open air, it is only a matter of time before I unleash the arrows.” Howland shook his head in grim amusement. “The beasts that stole my love away from me will punish; they will tear each other apart in the upcoming war while my home remains under the protection of an ice shield. We will strike when they are weak. My son will rule the North. My enemies will fall.” Howland turned to Benjen. “And Ned and I will finally be together.”   

“You started a war for love?”

“You fucking bet I did.” Howland threw him a cannister of oil. "Prepare yourself. I want you slicker than a whore in heat when you arrive at King's Landing." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ser Irmy Florent is the canon brother of Selyse Florent, Stannis’ wife in the series. Furthermore, I based Shireen more off the television series than the books because I thought her more cheerful personality worked better with her new circumstances.   
> 2\. My favorite part of this chapter is writing about how Stannis is relatively an unattractive omega yet so many alphas would rather have him as their bride rather than their own.   
> 3\. Some of you may have noticed that this chapter is predating the events of the show and you are correct. I originally planned this series out into 3 parts (Part 1: HowlandxNed, Part 2: JonxRobb, Part 3: BranxJojen) but have decided to extend it and give an extra series.   
> 4\. So yeah, I’ve had some questions asking about this and here is my answer: After this part ends, there will be a two-year time skip which will begin with Jon Arryn’s death (*I originally wrote “Jon’s death” before I realized some people might get confused by that, haha) and will follow the canon series—with a twist. Wink.   
> 5\. Fuck, that Theon/Asha interaction is never going to find a home.


	21. Chapter 21

Jon regained consciousness on a cloud of content. He was warm—rolled up like a butter bun in furs and wools. His father’s familiar iced pines and soaked ouds fogged up his nostrils and made his mind floaty. He wondered if he slept with his father recently until he realized that underneath his confinements, he was naked. The memories of his heat returned in flashes; his holes started to drip as heavy grunts and moans echoed in his ear. He stumbled out of his protective wrap and fell off the bed in a panic. His hand trembled towards his cunt and his fingertips touched clit and _pressed_. The sensation brought him close to a faint. The only thing keeping him from pleasure was the internal wail he heard.

_Robb!_

Jon's vision was cloudy, but he remembered Robb’s cock inside him; his brother’s swollen knot spreading out his insides and _breeding him_ until the door slammed open and revealed—Jon covered his mouth in horror. The bastard got up at once. His legs stumbled like a newborn calf, but he continued his shaken journey. He needed to get to the door. He needed to find Robb.

Before Jon could reach the knob, an underworldly beast barricaded him.

Ned Stark, his father, the Lord of Winterfell and his master in title, walked into the room. His steps were heavy. Jon said nothing; the silence amplified his steps. The situation was as delicate as the first sheet of ice on a riverbed and Jon did not dare to tread. His nerves were teetering on edge so recklessly that when he put down his tray, Jon jumped so high, he bruised his head on the ceiling. His father caught his flinch. Ned reached out with his hand and much to Jon’s relief, pulled him into an embrace. 

“Are you lucid?” Ned asked; his tone was thick with distress. Jon shakily raised up his arms to return the hug. When he did so, Ned gripped Jon even tighter before asking if he was well.

“I am, father. What is the matter? What happened?” At the moment, ignorance was his only option. He could not afford to let the length of his and Robb’s affair become known.

“Your heat came early,” Ned explained. He pulled away enough so that they were facing each other but refused to let go. “You weren’t…you weren’t yourself. It was like you were a babe again.” Ned pressed his lips on top of Jon’s curls. “I wanted to be here when you were awake. I never wanted to leave you alone,” he confessed.

Jon whimpered. His father smelled so good—so much like Robb that it was impossible not find comfort in their reunion, no matter how awkward the circumstances.

“Father, how long has it been? I feel…strange. It doesn’t feel like my normal heat. And where is Robb? He’s usually here when I wake.”

His father tensed like a golden lyre. Jon was helpless when his sire lifted him up and brought him back to bed. He grabbed the blankets and began to wrap Jon once more. Jon made a throaty noise of discontent.  "Father!"

Ned ignored him. He brought the tray to Jon and revealed milk, bread, cheeses and chestnuts. There was also a box on the side implying a gift. “I bought you some nourishment. You woke at an auspicious time. A vendor came earlier today from the Sothoryos. I bought something I thought you would like.”

Jon tried to escape from his binds. His efforts were countered by a swift piece of bread entering his mouth. Right after he swallowed, a second, incoming piece assaulted his mouth. When the third one came, he turned his cheek to protest. “Father, please stop. I need to know where Robb is. I think…we—”

“That’s not important,” Ned snapped. His gruff interaction was followed by more food. Jon was helpless; he accepted the chestnut without protest. “We won’t speak of what happen until you are well.”

“I am well,” Jon begged. “Please, I need to find my brother.”

“ _Robb_ has behaved in a manner that has stripped him of the right to call you brother. He should be fortunate that is the only title he lost.”

Jon’s blood chilled. He clung to his father. “Father, please do not do anything you will regret. Let me speak to him.”

Ned remained unmoved. “You will not leave this room until your heat has fully subsided.”

“My heat is gone.”

“Luwin predicted that the… _forceful interruption_ will cause it to last a fortnight. You will have to wait a day or two more before I am satisfied.”

“Father, my mind is clear,” Jon insisted.

“For now,” Ned dismissed. “Your mind has been wandering in and out for days. We will discuss this overmorrow.” When he saw Jon’s subsequent protest, he grabbed the box from the tray. When his father opened it, he revealed a new bracelet—a silver cuff with a smooth stone resembling the ocean’s waves, water and foam and all.

“The stone is called an opal. They’re from Naath.”

Jon watched him put it on his bare wrist. “It is beautiful,” Jon muttered softly. “Thank you, father. I will treasure it.” It was then he realized that Robb’s bracelet was gone. Lost during their lovemaking, no doubt; but its absence made him long for its master. “But it is too precious for me to wear without occasion. I have another one that I believe is more fitting for daily use. Robb bought it for me. I must have misplaced it.” Jon attempted to leave the bed. “I should ask him where it is.”

This time, Ned did not stop him. When Jon opened the door, two guards were standing at attention. He asked them to move only to be met with severe faces. He tried again, this time with a struggle, but the fortress of man would not open.  

“They’ve been given orders not to let you leave until you’ve recovered from the heat,” Ned explained.

Jon clenched his fists. “And I suppose you’ll tell them when that is?”

“I will.” Ned stood up. He took Jon into his arms again. “You are such a tender child; sweet as honey. You have been dishonored and made to bear a terrible burden.”

“Father, you are mistaken. Robb did not…he did not _force_ me to do anything against my will.”

Ned sighed, suddenly a thousand years older. “Your memory is murky from the heat,” his father told him. “We should wait for clarity before having this conversation.”

“Father,” Jon pleaded softly. “I am fine. I…want to see Robb. Please. His suffering must be unbearable.” Jon clung to his father’s shirt, hoping his wet eyes would wear at his father’s stone.

The lord’s eyes soften for a moment, before returning to its hard gaze. He pressed his lips against his son’s hair and promised him relief. “I will look for your bracelet,” Ned offered. “But I will not let you leave without the blessing of health.”

Jon’s shoulders dropped in distress. “Father,” Jon whispered.

Lord Stark would not hear another word. He closed the door to Jon’s quivering. Before he went in search of a distraction, he reminded the guards to not budge for his son’s demands.

“Do not falter no matter how moving his pleas are; Jon is his mother’s child—he possesses great guile, especially when people lead his heart astray.”

***

Days before Jon’s awakening, Ned petitioned a cordwainer to create a pair of shoes with blue velvet he purchased from the east. When he finished making his payment, his eye was drawn to the blue painted dress of a ceramic doll.

Jon had a dress like that, Ned thought with the wistfulness old men tend to have. He was in the middle of asking for a price, when his titular wife made her appearance.  

“Toys and gifts and pretty things. I thought better of you, Ned."

Ned sighed. "Is there a problem, Cat?"

Catelyn shook her head. "Do you think these trinkets will placate your son’s sorrow?” She brushed her fingers against one of the many dolls that had attracted Ned’s attention. “You could buy him every dress and doll in the kingdom and they will turn to dust before he forgets his true desire.”

Ned grunted. He walked away from the wares and headed to the castle where he would present his gift to his son. “Do not speak as if you know his desires.”

Catelyn frowned. She changed the topic to avoid incurring her husband’s wrath. “Jon has awoken. I heard he wishes to see Robb. He made quite a stir judging by the whispers of the maids.”

“I thought you above such gossip.”

“Circumstances has forced me to clean my ears,” Catelyn answered. She walked behind Ned as he attempted to escape their conversation. “I have held my end of the bargain, Ned. I did not protest Jon’s coming nor have I been outwardly cruel to him.”

“You bring a chill every time you enter his presence.”

“I did not promise to replace his mother,” Catelyn retorted.

Ned shuffled away to the godswoods. The place haunted Catelyn, who feared the weirwood’s gaze whenever she entered the sacred lands. She thought it was only a matter of time before the ground opened up and swallowed her whole.

“Lord Stark, I implore you to listen,” Catelyn petitioned. Her voice was soft but desperate. “Jon will not benefit from becoming a trueborn son. Such a decree will only draw forth more suspicion. They will know he is not a virgin and they will seek out who ruined him.”   

Ned turned around to face her. His face is wrought with disgust. “As long as Jon is a Snow, Winterfell is not safe for him. Jon will defend his brother’s innocence. His awakening has proven that. Without a profession of guilt, I cannot take away Robb’s title.” He glared at Catelyn’s sudden breath of relief. “But I will be damned if I let him drag _my son_ down further in his depravity. As lord of Winterfell, Robb will be able to do whatever he pleases to Jon and Jon will not refuse him. He is too gentle to send his brother away.” Ned clenched his fists. Catelyn could see the regret in his eyes and she trembled in fear and rage.

The little whore has seduced her child now aimed to turn father against son. There was no limit to his wickedness.

“Once Jon is a Stark, he will be protected. Under the circumstances that the truth is revealed, no one would continue to allow Robb to do as he pleases, not unless he wishes to lose the loyalty of the North.”

Catelyn wanted to scoff. Robb was too far under Jon’s spell to care.

“If that is not enough,” Ned continued angrily. “Jon will have the opportunity to marry an alpha that would rival Robb’s prestige.”

“Jon? You would marry your _bastard son_ to a high lord to spite your trueborn heir?” The notion turned Catelyn to ice. “Do you understand how reckless you are being? How humiliating it would be Sansa? Arya? _Br—_ ”

“They will understand the importance of their brother’s wellbeing.”

“I have told you a hundred times, he does not need protecting!” Catelyn shouted. She covered her mouth as soon as the declaration was made. Biting her tongue, she swallowed her anger and collected her thoughts. Finally, she took a deep breath. “If your concern is to protect Jon, why not marry him already? He’s had his ceremony; you’ve made him known. No one would suspect something amidst if you make an arrangement today. If not that, then foster him elsewhere. Another Northern house, the Reach, or maybe Dorne. You’ve spoken before on mending ties with them.” Catelyn listed one option after another, hoping to find anything that would break sense to the silent wolf. All fell short. “Send him back to the Neck if you fear your sons’ bond,” Catelyn reasoned.

“Your solution is to exile my son for the sake of yours?”

“Gods be good; will you stop referring to Robb as my son? He is your son, too!” Catelyn reminded angrily. “He is your blood! Your heir! Your legacy! You gave him his first sword, you taught him to ride a horse, when he was a child, you would carry him on your soldiers and climb the towers so that you could overlook the lands that he was to rule!” Catelyn was in hysterics. “How is it so easy _for you_ to trade the life of one son for another?”

If Ned were a weaker man, he would have struck her where she stood. The accusation burned his flesh like a hot iron. “For a decade, there was nothing to trade.”

Catelyn took a step back as Ned came forth to corner her. “These last three years have been my treasures—a vision of the life I could have led had your father not interfered.”

Catelyn turned red with embarrassment.

“I would not sell those treasures for all the gold in the world,” Ned told her. “Jon will stay here until I find a suitable match for him when _I_ am ready. Before then, I will have him live as a Stark and all the blessings the name entails.”

“Ned—”

“I am done catering to the whims of a Tully. _Be grateful_ ,” Ned warned. “That I _only_ succumbed to one dream.”

The cautionary note served to remind Catelyn of her place. “Gratitude,” she told her lawful husband.

Ned nodded. “Is that all?”

Catelyn walked towards the exit, but stopped at Lord Stark’s side. “No.” She reached into her dress pocket and handed Ned a velvet pouch.  

Ned raised an eyebrow.

“I took the liberty of visiting the apothecary.” Catelyn smiled in a way that did not match her eyes. The poise of a queen and the poison of a viper. “One bastard is customary; two are in bad taste.”

***

Lord Stark’s bedroom was large and comfortable, with floors radiating with warmth and walls soothed by the rumblings of working springs. Jon was found by his father’s scent no matter which corner he hid in; normally, such a fragrance would leave him sheltered and safe, but today it was no better than the bars of a cage. Jon was reminded of his father’s command to stay—all while his brother was held prisoner for a victimless crime.

Jon glanced at the window where the sunlight. Amongst the midst of madness, Jon vaguely considered climbing through. He was small enough fit, but they were several stories high. The fall would kill anyone.

But I am not just anyone, Jon thought, in the sort of proud, foolish way that many youths do. I am a crannogman. I am blessed by the gods, he insisted as drew closer to the opening. The more he fantasized about his reunion with Robb, the more welcoming the window became. He walked closer until he was an arm’s length away from the wall. His treacherous trance was broken by the timely interruption of his father’s guard. The knock startled him back to reality, where he was forced to allow the man in to avoid suspicion.

“Has my father sent for me?” Jon asked, adding a touch of syrupiness to his tone. Jory adored sweet things and he held a soft spot for pretty omegas with heart-shaped mouths.

Guilt latched onto Jory’s face. The bastard did not bother to hide his disappointment as he was normally inclined.

“He is an important man,” Jory defended. “He will join you for your day meal but I am to ask if there was anything you wanted to eat.”   

Jon looked away. “Such a task is beneath you.”

Jory straightened up. “Not at all. I requested the honor. I…wanted to check on your health.”

Jon wondered if the man saw his mating with Robb; if he was one of the many that believed his defilement was forced.

“How kind of you…” Jon murmured before his eyes widened with a sudden idea. He turned to face Jory, who was waiting for a response. Unlike his uncle, Jory carried a certain fondness for the crannogmen. He accompanied Jon’s father on their trips to the Neck and used to play with Jon as a babe, all for the sake of earning one of Lord Reed’s smiles. His affection for Jon’s mother was not unnoticed by either Reeds, and was met with teasing gestures and peeks of pale skin. All knew that Jory was too honorable to act on his yearnings and gods know Howland would never reciprocate, but on occasion, the Cassel’s eyes traveled and they stayed. Jon walked towards Jory, ill-intent rushing through his blood. He pulled at the hem of the guard’s shirt, playing up the slight of his size.

“Jory, I don’t think I can wait for father. I’m… _ravenous_. Couldn’t you take me to the kitchens yourself?” Jon begged, pulling the man closer so that his taut little body was pressed against the guard’s armor. “I would be so grateful.” Jon batted his eyelashes, thick and lengthy as his longing.

Jory faltered for just a moment but the opening was all Jon needed to strike. He leaned in closer while his cunt dripped down his thighs and drenched the room with the smell of his juices. It was a cheap ploy, one he had seen countless omegas use to seduce hardened cocks into their mouths, mirroring the scheming Venuses that slept in their swamps.

“Please, Jory,” Jon sung. “Father wouldn’t mind if it were you. You’d protect me, wouldn’t you?”

Jory shivered. “Jon…I would if I could but I have orders not to—”

“Mother talks about you,” Jon interrupted, causing Jory’s interest to pique “He tells me about how strong you are; how glad he is for the protection you provide my father.”

“Has he?” Jory asked hopefully.

Jon’s fingers traveled up his chest like spider legs.  “He has,” Jon answered. He tilted his head and pouted, making sure to bite his lower lip for a swollen pout. “I bet you would take him to the kitchens if he asked. Men are always falling over their feet to do what he wants.” Jon wetted his eyes with false tears. “Perhaps if I was as pretty as him, you’d be so kind.”

“No!” Jory denied at once. He reached out to cradle Jon’s face. Jon tried not to wince. He avoided the man’s touch by turning away. Jory read the move as an attempt to hide from potential rejection. He justified his response. “You are beautiful, Jon. The most beautiful being I’ve ever met.”  

“You are lying,” Jon retorted. “Everyone prefers my mother.”

“There is no competition,” Jory reasoned, falling over his own words as he did so. “You both are breathtaking.”

Jon felt a flutter of flattery in his chest. Once the smile rising was smothered and removed, he turned back to face his appointed jailer. Disbelief was present on his face. “You don’t mean that,” Jon told him. He took ahold of his dress and pulled it down his shoulders so that the very top of his chest was bared.

Jory’s breath hitched.  

“Look at my shoulders. They’re so wide and bony.”

“I…” Jory lost his train of thought. “I must go.”

“Why?” Jon asked with an exemplary tilt of the head, showcasing his snow white nape. “Am I so monstrous that I would make a strong, virile man like you flee?”

No! No, you are divine,” Jory breathed out. “You are…” Jory caught his ill-speech before it was uttered. He tried to retreat.  

“Are you leaving because of me?”

“Yes, _no_ , not how—” Jory never finished his sentence. He made the mistake of glancing over at Jon, whose bodice was undone. The boy slowly slipped the fabric from his chest to reveal a pair of firm, button-small nipples. Jory’s mouth dropped.

“How about my breasts? They’re almost nothing. My mother says that’s normal, but he has the prettiest bosom. Small but perky. Father loves to taste on them whenever they are together,” Jon explained, pleased by the enchanted gaze he received. He took a step closer. Jory was utterly distracted. With his defenses down, Jon attacked. He gently led Jory’s hands to his backside and on instinct, Jory’s finger latched onto the fleshy bottom. “At least I have these,” Jon teased. When Jory regained his senses, he tried to escape but Jon held him close.

“Does you like touching it?” Jon whispered. “I hear men talk about fucking my mother but do you think they do the same for me?” Jon encouraged Jory to squeeze. Jon moaned when he heard the crinkling of dried cum. The guard took a deep breath. “Do you think about putting your cock in me?”

“Jon, you are Lord Stark’s son,’ Jory reasoned.

“I am an omega.” Jon licked his lips. “My body is bred for pleasure.”

“Do not speak that way. You are a Stark by blood—”

“That doesn’t matter to Robb,” Jon murmured. He released Jory’s hands but they remained stuck to his backside. “He stopped looking at me as a brother the second he touched my cunt. After that, I was nothing more than a vessel to warm his cock.” Through his lashes, he stared coyly at Jory. The alpha’s cock was aching; Jon wonder if it would knot without a hole. “Did you see it?”

Jory backside was less than a foot from the door. “See what?”

“How thoroughly my brother violated me.” The guard’s eyes snapped open; his fierceness contrasted Jon’s ease. The omega spoke of smut as if he were reciting poetry. “Spreading my legs was as easy as breathing,” Jon whispered. “It felt natural, like we were animals and the only thing on my mind was mating, being bred and filled with pups, having my holes stuffed with cum”

His father’s guard bit back his moan. “Jon, you are better than some whore—”

“Why?” Jon’s hands teased the cut of Jory’s armor. He enjoyed the feeling steel against his fingers. It reminded him of the tourney, where Robb fucked him in the stables when they were alone. “ _It feels so good._ Why shouldn’t I feel good again?”

“That form of pleasure is not meant for you. I’ve known you since you were a child. You are virtuous and—”

“What is the value of virtue if I am denied my desires because of it?”

“Your honor is the greatest value,” Jory defended.

Jon stepped closer until he was cornering Jory against the door. “I don’t want honor.” Jory’s back rested on the entrance. He was unware of the turning knob, but the same could not be said of Jon. “I want to be _touched_ ,” he uttered, somehow more vulgarly than all filth spewed before. “I want to be free.” All the guards were warned about Jon. While most inwardly scoffed at Lord Stark’s warning, some heeded his advice. Jory’s extended time in the room would be questioned if the right people were responsible. Jon spent his whole life watched by his father’s men but little did they know that they, too, were being observed. He knew which guards were overly cautious. He knew as soon as Jory came inside his room who would be waiting outside. “I want to be fucked.”

The men opened the door to check on their captain.

“And I want to be _with Robb_.”

Jory tumbled over as soon as the door opened. Jon was wily child. He kept out of sight until the guards went to check on their companion. As soon as there was an opening, he was running out the door. When they ran after him, Jon was already out of sight.

***

The Night Watch arrived weeks ago to collect Winterfell’s prisoners; they left the dungeons devoid of life. A sole guard watched Robb’s cell, and he was haggard by age—an easy mark for a crannogman in lust and love. Jon disposed of him easily enough. Nothing lulled an old man to slumber like a softly uttered spell. Jon wished he could do more, but he was hardly his mother and by no means, his brother.

Robb Stark raised an eyebrow when his jailer dropped to the ground, but he did not move. He only spoke when his brother penetrated the lock with his newly acquired keys, halting his movements with a single word. “Don’t.”

Jon froze. For the first time since his heat, he was reacquainted with his brother’s presence and the sight made his throat dry. Robb aged a year in a week, and the angles of his face sharpened canines. His beard was growing and Jon could smell his masculinity on the follicles. He was washed and fed—they would never treat the still reigning heir of Winterfell as a criminal, but there was dirt on his skin and blood underneath his fingernails. Jon knew he must have come undone when they were separated; growling and snarling the whole way down; gnashing his teeth as his savaged his way back to Jon. His muscles had more definition; there were recent scars and bruising—Jon can only assume they were self-inflicted by the blood on the bricks. If Robb was to be trapped like a dog, he certainly aimed to be wild one. Rather than being frightened by his animalism, Jon wanted to drink up his body like a spring. Jon pressed his body against the bars.

Robb got up from the floor. He skulked to the cage, eyes on Jon the entire time. Jon longed to kiss him. The water returned to Jon’s mouth and he gushed in excitement.

“Robb, I—”

Robb cut him off. “What are you doing here?”

Jon was at a loss for words. “I…I…wa— _needed_ to see you,” he stuttered out at last. “Father wouldn’t tell me where you were but I heard the guards talking. I don’t understand how he could do this. I tried to explain but he—”

“He refused to listen.” To Jon’s amazement, Robb chuckled. His laughter made Jon shiver in terror and delight. Jon closed his legs to be careful of any wetness that might escape.

“Father sent me here as punishment.” Robb’s grin was cruel and carnivorous, as if he were snacking on vermin. “He has not visited since my imprisonment.”

Jon gripped the bars so tightly he feared they would splinter and snap. “I’m sorry,” Jon apologized with a half-sob. “I sensed my heat was coming but I…I didn’t care. I allowed my lust to interfere with my reasoning and _ruined everything_ —”

“Nothing is ruined. You are my mate, and my brother second,” Robb told him. “By the laws of gods and nature, I had every right to claim you.” His assurance weighed heavily on Jon’s shoulders. “I have no regrets.”

Jon pressed his forehead against the bars. Robb’s bravery was swoon-worthy and Jon’s despicable nature only made him want more of his adoration. “If father heard you say that, he’d strip you of your titles and send you beyond the wall.”   
Robb scoffed. “He’s on his way there,” Robb informd. “I decided the moment he caught us that I would carry the consequences.” The eldest Stark drew closer to the cell and rested his palms on the bars. He never laid a hand on Jon. Inwardly, he believed his lover would be too tantalizing to release once caught. “The North is _ours_. Mine by divinity and blood, and yours as long as I am. I won’t give it away so easily.”  

“You speak as if you had a fighting to chance for it,” Jon critiqued sorrowfully. His brother’s hubris was as delicious as a drug and every bit as dangerous. Jon struggled not to become addicted.

Demons haunted Robb’s face and Jon could feel the incoming dusk set upon them. Robb said nothing for the longest time; he stared at Jon, ravenous, before moving onto a contemplative expression.

“Show me your cunt.”

Like a dog to a dinner bell, Jon dripped on instinct. “Robb, you are acting like an animal. We can play all the games you want once you are free”

Robb ignored him. He repeated the sentiment. “Show me your cunt. I want to see how tight you’ve gotten without my cock inside it.”

Jon flushed with embarrassments. An internal war waged between Jon’s reason and his arousal. His father’s guards would be here any moment—they had to suspect he would seek out Robb.

“I’m waiting,” Robb told him.

Jon bit his lip. A trickle of cum sweated down his thighs and pooled on the floor. Jon raised his skirt to show his brother the filthy mess he was responsible for.  

“Slower,” Robb commanded when he started. “I like to watch your thighs strip.”

Jon uttered a small moan. He obeyed by raising an inch per second, following the approval in Robb’s eyes to go higher each time. When Jon’s panties were revealed, he took the initiative to use one free hand and pull it down to his knees, displaying his snug, pink cunt and a sweet little cocklet—all for his brother’s use.

Robb’s mouth watered. He wanted to sink his tongue between those lips and eat him out until he was bursting. His cock struggled to fit inside his trousers. It took all of his willpower not to rip apart the bars and take his brother then and there. The sound of incoming footsteps reminded him of their surroundings.  

Robb used all of his strength to retreat. “ _Leave_ ,” Robb growled.

Jon opened his mouth to beg for more but Robb interrupted his mewing with a declaration of his own.

“When I escape this cage— _and I will leave_ ,” Robb promised. In an instant, Robb slammed his body against the wall and used the spaces between the bars to pull Jon in. The younger boy dropped his hold on the skirts but not before Robb could sneak his fingers inside his lover’s quim. Jon shrieked in shock before his face converted to pure pleasure.

“Robb…” Jon moaned as his clit was fondled and molested.

Robb sunk his index and middle finger in deeper into Jon’s folds. It was like sinking into clotted cream and honey—Robb was sure it would be twice as sweet. “I’ll make you mine again,” Robb breathed out. “I’m going to fuck your cunt until your womb is shaped around my cock and cover every single inch of you with cum. Father will never call you his darling boy again.” Robb lowered his gaze on Jon. “Do you understand?”

Jon whimpered.

Robb curled his fingers until he hit deep inside Jon. Jon almost screamed.

“Do you understand?” Robb growled.

Jon closed his eyes and gave in to the pleasure. He tried to grind his hips against his brother’s hand but Robb pulled away.

“Please,” Jon gasped. He dropped to his knees as soon as Robb removed his hand.

Robb took out his sullied fingers and sucked on his brother’s flavor. He spread the cum over his mouth so that he could taste Jon whenever he licked his lips. Without a word, he returned to the back of the cell and left his brother a boneless mess on the ground.

When the guards arrived to the dungeons, the only things that greeted them was a sleeping guard and anticipating heir. He looked into Jory’s eyes and faced the captain’s shame and disgust with pride.  

“Is there anything you need?” Robb asked, bearing his teeth in triumph. There was a bit of Jon’s juices glossed over his lips. He did not bother to wipe the remains off his mouth; he rather enjoyed how his father’s men narrowed their eyes at his victory.  

***

No one dreaded Jon’s disappearance more than Lord Stark’s personal guard. Their master broke apart the bricks of Winterfell in pursuit of his son. There was not a guard whose pants remained unsoiled when the lord released his wrath, threatening them with torn guts and loose cocks if his babe was not seen by sundown.

Their savior came, not with the sword of a warrior but the hands of a healer. The messenger trembled when he revealed Jon was resting in maester Luwin’s quarters. Ned practically ripped the hinges off the door. Maester Luwin was not impressed by his lord’s entrance. Jon was considerably more amused. 

“Father!” Jon shrieked when Ned scooped him up in his arms. His hold on the omega tightened as his precious son squirmed in his arms. “Father, you are suffocating me.”

Ned reluctantly released him. “Jon, you frightened me. I told you not to leave the room.”

Jon wrinkled his nose; it was childish gesture—one that reminded Ned of his boy’s innocence. “I am not a bird in a cage. You said I was not to leave until my heat subsided. I came to maester Luwin to confirm the truth. My heat is gone.”  

Ned ran his fingers through Jon’s hair. He turned to the maester. “Is that true?”

The maester nodded his agreement. “Jon display no outward signs of a heat. It is safe to assume he’s recovered completely.”

Jon’s triumphant grin contrasted his father’s reluctance. He moved to hug his father’s chest. “I told you,” he reminded.

Ned’s fury settled into a low-boiling disappointment. He crouched down to the floor to face his son. “I understand, but that is no excuse to go against my wishes. You frightened me,” Ned confessed. He cradled Jon’s cheek. “I could not bear it if you were harmed again.”

Jon nodded but then returned his father’s gaze with confidence. “I was not hurt to begin with. Father, Robb was not in the wrong. If I could just explain—”

Ned turned to maester Luwin. “Since Jon is well, I’ll take him to his room. I expect a full report on his health when I return.”  
Maester Luwin raised an eyebrow. “Will that be necessary, Lord Stark?”

Ned tried not to notice the insinuation in his tone. “I want to discuss Jon’s… _predicament_.”

Maester Luwin looked upon his ward with disappointment. “Perhaps, I should join you in Jon’s bedchambers instead of having this meeting in secret. It is his body we will be discussing.”

Jon stared at his father hopefully. Ned was slow to shoot down the suggestion; and his pause made way for a vile suggestion. “And in addition, we should send for his brother. The dungeons are drafty this time of day. Jon has been yearning for his presence for quite some time and I believe his presence will do some good for health.”

Ned tightened his grip on Jon’s shoulder. “I do not see why. If anything, such a forceful presence would only hinder his health.”

Jon opened his mouth to defend Robb but Luwin beat him to a response. “Robb may be a forceful presence but he is also a familiar one. Jon has been asking for him and I believe an indulgence may be soothing.”

Before Ned could refuse the proposal, a messenger arrived with a message from the gate. “M’lord?”

“Yes,” Ned answered; desperate for a reprieve. He was at a lost on how to respond, having been ensnared by the two enemies at his side.  Neither the reason of his son nor his maester seemed to be aligned with his, and he would not risk his son’s souls on their follies.

The messenger, one of the guards stationed at Winterfell’s gate, coughed. “You have a visitor at the gate. He said the matter is urgent.”  

Ned stepped out of the room, ignoring Jon’s plea to stay.

“Who is it?”  
The man swallowed.

“Lord Reed, m’lord.”  

***

Howland Reed allowed his horse to be taken to the stables while a guard was sent for Lord Stark. Try as he might to stay true to his humble roots, he could not deny there was some charm in luxury. He was given a cup of water for his parched and another man offered to escort him inside Winterfell. He refused their offers, hoping to be led by his lover.

Ned arrived promptly, but his face was so stern, Howland had thought he was facing a foe. The lord of the crannogman walked towards his beloved. When they faced each other, Ned gave him a customary kiss on the cheek. They would have a more passionate reunion indoors but in the courtyard, propriety was required.

Howland chuckled when his lips brushed against his cheek. “You don’t look happy to see me, my love.”  

Ned shook his head. “I have been unwell as of late.”

Howland raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Has a plague befallen Winterfell? I heard there was a fever passing through. Is Jon ill?”

Howland stepped forward to enter the castle, but Ned held him in place. He wrapped his arm around Howland’s waist and pulled him back. “Your spies have kept you well informed,” Ned accused. He maintained a soft rumbling growl for their conversation, and held his mouth so close to Howland’s ear, it was at risk of being bitten off. 

Howland smiled. “Are we to discuss our private business here, Lord Stark? You know better.” 

“Why are you here, Howland?” Ned asked, always to the point.

Howland looked at him with a gaze that did not match the amusement on his mouth. “I refuse to discuss the matter so publically,” he whispered back. “Less I lose my temper, I rather not lose my head in the process.” Howland nodded to the lord’s men and how their hands rested on their sword like talons. He turned around in his lover’s embrace and smiled.

“Kiss me.”

Ned obeyed; his suspicion was no match for the devil that was temptation and love. Their lips met in an obscene display. Howland clutched onto his lover’s shirt and pressed their chests against each other, inwardly arching his back like a cream-coated cat.

When they parted, Howland brushed his thumb against Ned’s lips. He leaned in for another, but but a question blocked his lips.

“Why are you here?” Ned repeated.

Howland grimaced; he swiftly replaced his frown with a smile. “I missed you.”   

“You lie.”

 “About my yearning for you? Never,” Howland told him halfheartedly. “I would have arrived earlier but there was business to attend.”

“What kind of business?”

“The kind that requires a private invitation.” Howland tightened his shawl around his shoulders. “Can we continue within warmer accommodations? I am catching a chill.”

Ned grunted in lieu of a yes. He led the way inside, but headed in the opposite direction of maester Luwin’s quarters. Howland caught the misdirection at once.

“Is Jon in the dining hall?”  

“He is resting.” Ned was not a man for bluffing. “We will eat first.”

“You wish to break bread? With me?” Howland made it clear his offense was said in jest, but there was an edge to his tone that indicated his disbelief.

“I mean no offense. I thought you would be hungry after such a long journey.”

Ned was a bad liar and in any other situation, Howland would have found his attempt at deceit amusing. “I am famished,” Howland agreed. He turned his heel and headed to towards a maid. “For the affection and love of my eldest child. Do not be so cruel as to starve me.”

Ned grabbed his wrist. “I have much to discuss with you.” The suggestion masqueraded as a threat, and to many. Ned was not a gambler, but Howland was accustomed to a risky hand. He did not retreat nor did he restrained himself. He faced his lover, and spoke freely to the most powerful man in the North.

“The two of us would make time lose patience,” Howland declared. He touched Ned’s arm and looked into his eyes. “Take me to our son. Once I am satisfied, we can discuss our more… _prevalent concerns_. I am sure you have a lot of questions.”

“And I am sure you will seek a way around answering them.”

Howland paused. “Have I upset you, my lord?”

For the briefest moment, a flare of indignation rose in Lord Stark’s chest. He was reminded of the bracelet he found—the obvious mark of an unknown suitor, and the looming presence of spies within his castle, and a hysterical part of him believed their company was an indication of faithlessness towards his childrearing abilities. More madness tumbled through his mind, pulled by the knowledge that Howland Reed—his beloved, the mother of his child, was scheming within his country, without a care to his consent, on treasonous grounds. Ned was frightened for his lover and terrified for his child, of the consequences of the crime he had no knowledge.

Without warning, the Lord of Winterfell grabbed his lover and threw him against the wall. Fear flashed through Howland’s eyes like lightning in a storm and in order to blind himself to the sight, Ned attacked the crannogman’s lips. The kiss was so hard, it left the omega’s mouth bruised and bloody. Howland whimpered but he kissed back. The kiss went on for an eternity; Howland could not resist wrapping his leg around his lord’s waist for stability. Everything was cruel and harsh but it was Ned and that made Howland want more than he could handle. When they parted, Howland could not control his breathing.

“Jon is resting in maester Luwin’s office,” Ned breathed out as he focused on marking Howland’s neck. His teeth sunk into the Reed’s skin and it was bleeding—Howland knew it was impossible not to. He gasped and moan and was delectably submissive for his alpha.

Ned did not bother to listen. When he was finally finished, he released Howland and left the man grasping for his neck.

“Ned, what was—”

Ned looked away. “I have other matters to attend to, but I will meet you in my quarters when I am finished.” He glanced over at Howland’s recovering body. “Wait for me,” he ordered.  

Still gripping his bruised nape, Howland stared at him. The two of them shared one last look, all in silence, before Ned turned his back and abandoned him.

Howland retracted his hand and saw the blood on the fingers. Instead of letting out a gasp or a scream, he wiped the mess on the inside of his clothes so that they would not alarm the populace of the castle.  

***

Howland covered his neck with a fur shawl before entering the room. His lips were moistened with water he grabbed from a maid and made sure to hide any signs of an assault from his son. He refused to dwell on his lover’s peculiarity and pushed his concern down a hole.

“Mother!” Jon exclaimed. With unrestrainable delight, Jon jumped off the sickbed and into Howland’s arms. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” Howland told him while planting kisses all over his son’s face. “I heard you and Robb had quite an adventure.”

Jon flushed like a mortified tomato and it would have been endearing if their circumstances were not so dire. Howland stroked his cheek, gentle as a lamb, and was about to reassure his son of his support when Maester Luwin scoffed from his desk, breaking his façade of nonchalance and alerting both crannogmen to his presence. With a chagrinned smile, Howland turned to the elder and requested privacy.

“You would kick an old man out of his home?”

“It will only be a moment,” Howland promised playfully. “I would never dream of exiling you.”  

Maester Luwin shook his head and gathered his books. “Be swift. I have important documents to look over.” 

Howland nodded. Once the maester was safely out of proximity, Howland faced his son with all the gravity the situation called for.

“Tell me everything that happened.”

***

While his lover interrogated their son for answers, Ned found himself making excuses as to why he would not join his family. All of them were odes to his selflessness and all were as fictional as the lies of the court ladies. He could not bear to face either of them after his actions. His refusal to rectify the relationship between his son was an act against Jon and his assault on Howland was the act of a madman. He feared if he were alone again with either of them, he would transform into a liar or a beast.

To regain his honor, Ned treaded heavy steps towards the dungeons. He could not describe his relief when he heard the soft pattering of his youngest omega.

“Bran,” Ned addressed. He lifted the boy in his arms. The child was both an admirer and competitor to his older brother—he demanded almost as many embraces as Jon.   

Bran nuzzled his nose into his father’s neck. He was scenting him, and Ned could not stifle down his guilt. He had been distant towards his children since Jon’s heat, and Bran’s affection was a sign of his incompetence.

“Where is Lord Reed?” Bran asked after he was finished.

Ned sighed. He had to keep the maids from gossiping. There was not a stone in Winterfell that Bran was not aware of, and no guest could arrive unnoticed by his curious eye.

 “Lord Reed is with Jon. They wanted to be alone for their reunion.”

“Is Jojen with him?” Bran asked hopefully. He sloshed his head back and forth. “I could not see him but sometimes he hides.” The little omega blushed. “He likes to surprise me.”

Ned shook his head; he chose not to dwell on Bran’s questionable affection for Howland’s son, nor would he fuss over the fact that more and more familial alphas were encroaching on his territory. He had enough headaches. “He came alone.”

Bran’s disappointment was tangible and the emotional weight dropped from his head to his chest. Bran embraced him again and Ned was compelled to tighten his hug.   
“Is Jon going to leave us?” Bran whispered while his fingers clenched his father’s shirt.

Ned’s jaw slacked in surprise. “Where did you hear that?”

Bran turned away, ashamed of his own intrusiveness. “No one,” he muttered.

“Did you mother say that?”

Bran shook his head. “No,” he answered.

Ned did not believe him. “Do not lie to me, Bran.”

“I am not lying!” Bran protested.

Ned cursed his wife’s meddling. Barely a day in Jon’s sobriety and she was already prepping their children for farewells. “Jon will not be going anywhere.”

To his surprise, Bran was not relieved. “Then, it will be Robb who goes.” Bran’s eyes glossed over with tears.    

More questions sprouted in his mind like the insufferable weeds growing in Howland’s swamps. He reconsidered sending his youngest omega to the Reeds—there were already too many secrets in his family. Ned opted to exit from the conversation by leaving the halls. He carried his son to the boy’s room where he laid him in his bed. Bran let out a quiet sob.

“Do not cry without occasion,” Ned commanded. “Neither of your brothers face banishment.” Not yet, at least. He was stalling against his reunion with Robb, and for good reason. The boy was incorrigible with dignity—no amount of sense, from the guards or his mother, have chiseled a shape of shame into him. He was proud of his brother’s violation and Ned feared the worse if he were left alone with his eldest son.

Bran sniffled like a rabbit caught in dust ball. “Why can they not all stay?”  
Ned sighed. “Bran, I have spoken clearly. No one is at risk of leave—”

“No!” Bran denied. He shook his head violently, as if he were having a fierce fit. “I do not want Jon or Robb to leave again, not for the tourneys in the south or the wall in the north. I want them here! In Winterfell. With us. I want Jojen. I want Meera. I want Lord Reed to stay!” Bran shouted.

“Bran, stop this behavior—”

“You are never happy unless he is here,” Bran accused. “You do not love mother; you love Lord Reed. So you will leave Winterfell.”

“Bran, I will not leave Winterfell,” Ned reasoned. “I am its lord and it is my duty to rule the North.”

Bran all but called him a liar. “You will leave Winterfell because if Lord Reed is not here, then no other place matters. You hate it here. You hate being a lord. You hate anything to do with power. You fight in wars you do not care about and follow commands you do not believe in because it’s your _duty_ when all you want is to be with Lord Reed.” Bran frowned.

Ned could not get to his feet fast enough. “Where have you been hearing these things?” Who had the audacity to poison his son with this knowledge?

“The weeds tell me,” Bran told him. He gave no further explanation. A shadow fell upon his eyes. “I hear Lord Reed all the time and he says the same thing, and that’s your name.” 

“Lord Reed and I have a bond that you are not prepared to experience,” Ned instructed. “You are a child.”

“Lord Reed says that honor should never conquer over love.” Bran ignored his advice, desperate to prove his point. “He says that there is no passion that can match even the shallowest depths of infatuation.” Bran spoke every detail as if he were reciting a fairy tale. He did so loved stories of gallantry and wonder. “He says that true love will allow men to conquer armies and bury kings. That’s why Robb deserves the North. Because he understands love is something to be valued over honor.”

Howland’s duplicitous comments echo in Ned’s head. He was beginning to see how the seething towards King Robert could evolve beyond half-hearted threats and casual insults.

“Bran, do not speak another word of this.” Ned grabbed his son by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You must never tell anyone of what you heard.”

For once, Bran appeared ashamed. He looked into Ned’s eyes, an indicator of unveiling honesty. “I don’t want anyone to leave,” Bran proclaimed, more childishly than before. “I want all the people who love each other to stay with each other. Forever. I want Jon and Robb and you and Lord Reed and everyone to just _stay_.”

Ned stroked his son’s hair. He opened his mouth for comfort, but then snapped it shut as Bran’s final words dawned on him. “Did you say Robb?”

Bran froze. “Father?”

“Bran, what has Howland said about Robb?” Ned paused and tried to hold onto his control. “What has he have planned for your brother?”

Recognizing his blunder, Bran began to cry again. “N-nothing!” He lied, looking at his feet as if they were accomplices. Ned held onto his son in a hold that was almost bruising. He forced their gazes to meet. “Bran, if you care about your brothers, you will tell me everything.”  
Bran shook his head. “You will get angry and you will send him away.”  
“I will not,” and it was the closest he ever came to lying to his son. “But you must tell me so I can protect the people we love.”

Bran wanted to be strong, but submission was second nature to him and he relinquished control over to his father, the soft-spoken but ever domineering alpha of the North. With soft, hiccupping sobs, Bran ceded to his request. He asked his father not to get angry as he recited the songs he heard from the earth.

***

There was not enough broken bedframes and shattered glass in the world to intrigue an outsider into Jon’s room. Ned left his son’s sanctuary a war zone. His vision was blinded by rage. He searched for the truth in the debris, picking up broken dolls and tearing apart pillows like paper. Feathers flew into the air like hooves on dirt and the tear of bedsheets rumbled like thunder. He was lost in madness, until an unearthly calm led him astray. He pressed his hand against the wall and breathed. More toxins filled his lungs, but they tasted sweet compared to his bitter findings. The first was a silver cuff resting on the bedsheets. The second was a burlap bag.

Ned was familiar with the contents of the pouch; Howland revealed its purpose ages ago, following the birth of his youngest child.  

***

Robb thanked the gods when his visitor came.

“I was wondering how much longer I would have to wait,” Robb mused.

Ned did not share his entertainment. He commanded the guards to wait outside. When they were out of earshot, he threw the bag between the wooden bars. The powder incriminated the ground like the dust of a corpse. Robb glanced over at the spill but did not let his gaze linger.

“Is that my meal for tonight?” Robb asked innocently. “Should I lick it, seeing as how I am no better than a dog in your eyes?”

“Do not feign ignorance,” Ned accused. “You know what it is.”

 “Only if you tell me. I have no talent for medicine; maester Luwin has said as such.” Robb’s lips twitched. “You should ask Jon. He has a skill for those things, undoubtedly inherited from his lovely mother.”   

Ned slammed his fist against the bars and the wood snapped like roots cracking the earth. He went straight through the wood. His hands were bloodied beyond recognition.

Robb remained remorseless.

“How long?” Ned asked.

Robb paused, but he made no attempts to hide. He pressed his foot on top of the pouch and smothered it with his sole. His composure edged Ned’s nerves. “Not long enough.”   
Ned tightened his fist. “Do you confess to violating your brother?” He pushed, ever unwavering.

“I confess to loving him, and the acts that follow with such love,” Robb replied. “Are we trading an answer for another?”

Ned glared. “You are in no position to make demands.”

“You cannot expect to leave here empty-minded.” By the gods, when had his son’s voice gotten so deep? “I am not inclined to lie, but it would not work entirely in my favor if I told the truth.” Robb stared at the dirty pouch. “You once told me that no good man allows kindness to go unacknowledged. So I ask you; will you offer the truth in exchange for mine?”

The indignation Ned felt was neither righteous nor unprecedented. He wanted to call his son a snake but he knew the young man was right. With grave reluctant, he agreed.

“Yes,” Ned gritted out. “We have a deal.”  

“Like real men,” Robb noted. Much to his chagrin, he took comfort in Robb’s pleased tone. Despite the circumstances, his son was happy to be treated like a man instead of a boy. “Was that the only bag you found?”  

 “It was.”

“Good.” Robb gave a small smile, satisfied by the response. “That was Jon’s only supply.”

The bars shook from the ferocity of Ned’s grip. “Do you understand what you have done?” His frustration reopened the wounds of his bleeding hands. Their lack of knowledge made it so that no one interfered with Jon’s feedings. No tansy, none of Howland’s herbal concoctions. Jon was as susceptible to seed as any omega was during their heat.

The thought of his babe, swollen with a pup of his own summoned a strand of his long suppressed madness. He imagined his sweet boy cradling his babe, singing the nursery rhymes Howland loved and Ned loathed for their vivid darkness. Crannogmen were natural mothers, always aching to breed and nurse. The latter thought lingered in his mind and grew to a terrible image of his grandchild suckling on his babe’s teats. Would he lose his father and become more like Howland then? Would Ned finally be able to keep someone he love inside these halls for good?  
“Jon would make a beautiful mother,” Robb said, reading his thoughts like they were words on a sheet. “He will never leave Winterfell if it’s true.”

“What?” Ned whispered. 

Robb stood up, taller than he had ever been. He did not tremble; he did not falter. He spoke with such hardness; it could have broken bridges.

“Jon will stay to raise him. With me. With our family. Here in Winterfell where he belongs.” Robb declared. “Our child will sit on the throne of the North. Our children are the only children I will have. I will not marry unless it is to Jon, and I won’t bed another for as long as I live. If you force Jon’s hand to someone else, I will announce to the whole world that Jon has been defiled by me. His child is _mine_ and _every single child_ after will be mine as well. No alpha worth their steel will accept a place in a cuckold’s nest.”

“I can make Rickon my heir,” Ned threatened. “Your words hold no value if that is the case.”

“Then I will take Jon from Winterfell,” Robb replied. “There will be no struggle. Jon will stay by my side.”

“I will hunt you down,” Ned growled. “And skin you like the beast you are if you dare!”

“Jon will never forgive you if you do. Will you force him to choose between the two men he loves the most?” Robb paused. “Will you accept his answer if he does?”

Jon’s exterior, from the walls of his snow skin and silver eyes, to the curly vines on top of his head, was all Stark. Everyone knew who was his sire from first sight. But that love—that devotion, that obsession to one’s heart—that was his mother’s doing.

Jon would choose Robb. He would cry and plead and beg for Ned to swallow his words as if they were never spoken but the answer was known.

The misery wrapped around his heart, mimicking the hold of vines. Each breath was like a god tying the thorns into his organ’s flesh. The sensation overwhelmed his entire body and forced him onto his knees. Ned heaved and screamed as the pain overtook. Robb ran to the bars but he was not strong enough to break the cage.

“Guards!” Ned heard Robb yell. “Guards! My father—Lord Stark is hurt!”

The commotion was enough to catch their attention. The men came tumbling down the stairs. Ned’s vision faded into the darkness. The last thing he saw was his son’s eyes as he slipped into unconsciousness, and it was the first time he saw fear present.

***

Following his attack, Lord Stark fell into a thrashing slumber. He twisted like a fish in a whirlpool and when he was done fighting, his sleep turned serene. Luwin was unsure of what plagued his master, but after the harm was done, Ned’s breathing was sound and his heart sung a healthy song. Maester Luwin was inclined to say there was no ailment and that attack was nothing more than a fit of age. He knew better, and Howland did as well. But neither of the two dared to make an alternative suggestion, and so Luwin continued his duties as not to alarm suspicion and Howland stayed by his lover’s side. 

The Lord of the Neck was in the middle of pouring tea when he heard a grumble. He dropped the cup at once, ignoring the background shatter as he ran to his love. “Ned!” Howland gasped.

Ned’s eyes snapped open. Before he saw the light, his vision was overwhelmed with love. Howland climbed on top of him and kissed him as if he were transferring life to his body. 

“What happened?” Ned asked when they separated.

In between his answers, Howland continued to mark his skin with his lips. “You had an attack. During your argument with Robb.” Howland could not help himself. He kissed Ned again. He threw his arms around Ned’s neck and held him close. “No one knows the cause.” Howland wanted to cover the man with his sweat, scent him as his possession. The madness was contagious and it was more damning than the pox. “You terrified me.”

“I am alright,” Ned told him. His tone was soft—oddly calm despite his experience.

“I thought I was going to die.”

Ned grabbed the small of Howland’s waist and pulled him down on top of his cock. Hard as a tree and virile with fruit.

Howland chuckled and choked in delayed delight. This was nothing to fret over, Howland thought. His lord was already recovering.

“We have to see maester Luwin,” Howland suggested. He kissed underneath Ned’s ear. “You hit your head when you fell. We must—” Howland was cut off.

Ned did not bother to humor the heed.

Lord Stark, in an unusual display of dexterity, slammed Howland against the sheets. His lover did not bother with frivolities. Ned’s fingers snuck inside his quim and let his callous blisters rub against Howland’s insides and fuck him open like a rubber toy. Howland yelped like a wounded beast gnawed at his side. When he tried to stop Ned, the lord of all things northern quickly retracted his hand. Ned ripped off Howland’s lower garments and spread his legs to both sides. As an attest to his flexibility, Howland did not hesitate to split.

“Ned, please, stop…ah!” Howland threw his head back. His snatched opened up to let in Ned’s tongue. The older man devoured his companion, licking the residue off his pulsing clit and thrusting his tongue within the insides of his folds. While Howland throbbed for more, Ned released his mouth and swallowed Howland’s delicious cock whole. The stimulation of both organs had Howland screaming till his throat was hoarse. Just as Howland reached over to grab Ned’s head to further the finale, Ned released him from his mouth. The liege lord took out his cock. Howland glimpsed at the pulsing erection, too large and red and ready to split him open, and he whimpered. He needed to stop this, for Ned was not himself. The animalism he was displaying was surely the act of witchcraft. While made plans to halt their affair, Ned would have nothing of it. He entered Howland forcibly, causing Howland’s throat to become as sore as a whore’s throat from all the begging. “Gods, gods, gods…” Howland choked out in pleasure. His eyes diluted in bliss as Ned fucked him into the mattress. It felt so good. It was nothing like a heat—nowhere near as intense and yet more so because for the first time, he was aware of the intensity. Unsatisfied with Howland’s remaining reluctance, Ned flipped over his mate and had him on his hands and knees like a dog. Howland whimpered. He loved and hated being taken this way. Every thrust hit deep into womb; it made him aware that they were not making love but he was being _bred_. Howland let out his tongue and panted in pleasure as his sanity slipped. Ned in, response, continued to pistol in and out of him without stopping. He painted bruises onto Howland’s back and printed marks with his fangs. During the end, when Howland was sure he was close, he forced Howland’s face onto the pillow and began to plow him with abandoned. Howland was too weak to even clenched onto the sheets. On his final fucking, Ned dove in deep and bellowed out what seemed to be lifetime worth of cum.  He could feel his body adjust and accept the on slot of seed pouring into his womb.

Ned slumped on top of him, cock still lodged inside his cunt, stuffing him full. Howland whimpered, but instead of protesting, he accepted the gesture with ideal submission. His eyelids sunk but he fought the veil of sleep. He needed to address the prickling sensation that nagged at him like a tick plotting holes onto his skin.

“Ned…” He whispered softly. Howland winced from the scratching of his throat; one would think a man had used a glove made of sand to scrape at his insides. “Ned… look at me.”

To his surprise, Ned got up, cock softened from use but still hung proudly. Howland’s cunt throbbed at the sight.

Such a whore I am, Howland thought, to be so easily distracted. He nonetheless prevailed in his pursuit. “Ned,” Howland addressed again. This time, he motioned to grab Ned’s arm. When his lover turned, Howland stiffened like a new corpse.

To Howland’s credit, he did not falter with the revelation nor was he happy to find that his suspicions were confirmed.

Ned was bewitched.

“Ned, are you alright?” Howland asked, caution following every word.

Howland doubted anyone who could sing the songs of earth would act against a Stark and they would be less likely to fight a crannogman whose blood was as rich as his own. The perpetrators must be human, but that only enriched the mystery. There were few humans on earth that could outmaneuver his trickery. Howland had the wisdom to place wards on the entire castle, and then some on the Starks to keep them from the harmful ways of false gods and their blessings.

Ned did not answer. He escaped from Howland’s hold and made a move towards his desk. Howland watched silently as he uncorked a container of wine and poured him a goblet full. He returned to his lover and held it to Howland’s lips.

“Drink,” Ned commanded.

If Ned wished to harm him, there were superior methods than poison. Howland was immune to most either way. It would serve him well to play along so Howland took the cup.

Howland drank greedily; he found himself parched by the thickened plot. The illusion of bliss casted by alcohol made his head spin. He could never hold his liquor.

Ned, satisfied by the motion, returned to his desk. He pulled out a pouch and rested it on the desk. Howland watched the scene with the morbid curiosity of a prisoner on death row.

“Catelyn gave me tansy for Jon.”

Howland choked on his drink.   
“You cannot give that to him!” Howland protested angrily. He tightened his fist. If that woman planned a repeat performance of her father’s show, he would kill her where she stood. “If circumstances arise where that is needed, I have my own methods, safe methods.”

“No, you do not,” Ned interrupted, causing Howland to pull back. Ned sounded abnormally calm. If anything, there was pride and such a tone was reserved for his children alone. “Jon will not require your assistance. Or anyone else for that matter. I will be ridding Winterfell of your medication.”

Howland struggled to leave the bed. He was dripping down his thighs, but ignored the mess to question is lover. He touched his cheek. “Ned, what is going on?”

“Robb is right,” Ned declared as he leaned into the touch. Despite his resigned tone, Howland could hear the desperation seeded into his words. “Jon cannot leave Winterfell if he carries his brother’s child. The shame would be great to bear otherwise.” Ned’s gaze met Howland’s and Howland watched as the last of the dawn left his lover’s eyes and then entered the darkness. “I will have the family I desire. All the people I love within the walls of Winterfell, protected by the bricks of my ancestor. This is where they belong.”

Howland shook his head. “That is beautiful picture, but one you cannot bring to canvas.” Howland pressed the foreheads together, hoping that he could wear off the enchantment through skin contact. “That is not your destiny,” Howland soothed. “Ned, let me help you.”  
Just as Ned was lulled into Howland’s comforting spell, a spark reignited in his eyes and deafened him to Howland’s pleas. He threw Howland onto the desk. His breath became ragged as the rocks of the Widow’s Peak and his hands burned like the Dornish sun.  

“Ned!” Howland shouted. He reached out to stable him, but Ned trapped his hands against the wood.

“There’s only one way you can help me,” Ned growled. He ripped opened Howland’s shirt, the last remaining dignity Howland had on him. Ned climbed on top of Howland. Howland clutched onto Ned’s shirt, using his arm as a bridge and a wall to keep Ned with him. “Ned, stop this. You are bewitched. You are not yourself—”

“ _I will not lose you again!_ ” Ned roared with enough ferocity to shake the room. A moment of silence passed through the room. Howland could not will himself to speak as Ned regained his composure. For a moment, Howland saw the truth in his eyes and almost as soon as it was there, his Ned, his honorable, foolish, loving Ned, left and came back with black eyes. This Ned pulled him up and carried him to his bed. This Ned made Howland hesitant and weak. This Ned compelled Howland to offer him everything, even when he could not perform his promises.

“Jon will stay for Robb, but you, you are the Lord of the Neck. You need another reason to stay by my side,” Ned mumbled.

Dread and lust twisted into Howland’s like roses and moss, entangled in their own war, they eventually kill themselves in the process. Howland’s breath hitched when Ned reentered him.  He was still so sore and full, but Howland knew that Ned would not stop until he was bursting with his seed.

Another reason to stay, Howland thought before he succumbed.

***                                                                                                                  

In his dreams, Bran watched Jon run into Robb’s embrace. The sight made him turn pink with delight. He reasoned it was only a matter of time before he and Jojen were so affectionate. Then, Jojen could kiss and hug him all he wanted and no one could stop them. The thought reassured his smile until the next morning, when he realized he’d forgotten to put away his Box of Eyes, from the little spell he casted last night. He hoped his mother didn’t visit. She hated when he left a mess, and was especially testy when she saw him playing with Howland’s gift.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating until now. With school and work and grad school applications, I've been in a bit of a writing rut. Thankfully, I'll have more time next year to write and hopefully post even more stories. :) Thanks to all the people who stuck by me despite the long updates. I will be posting a new schedule once I have pre-written some chapters for all my stories. For now, this will be my last update for next year (January). I would like to start updating again by the 1st but realistically, it'll be sometime after the 15th.   
> Thank you and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!  
> *Also really sorry for the typos. I'm really tired (and just got off the plane). I really rather post this with a few mess ups and sleeps then sleep and have you guys wait another day.


	22. Chapter 22

Theon was getting used to the constant ache of a sore throat. Despite his best efforts to avoid his betrothed, Domeric found Theon wherever he hid. He was adamant about teaching Theon his “wifely duties,” and though Theon did not mind his essential, albeit tedious, lessons on household management and finances, he did oppose the more… _strenuous_ instruction. Cock-sucking, for example, was losing its appeal. He went to bed with a mouth as raw as sand, and if it weren't for his frequent trips to the maester, he would have feared a ghoulish rash. The castle would soon be depleted of water to clench his drought.

The problem with Domeric’s cock wasn’t its girth or length, or anything as shallow as size. Appearance wise, it was fine, enjoyable even—in fact, Theon would admit to salivating over it in the moments before he resorted to self-pleasure. No, the problem wasn’t the cock, but the person attached to it. Domeric was becoming a problem, and his mindboggling, sound-deafening, orgasm-denying selfishness.

Domeric never attempted to aid Theon’s release, and while Theon was able to withstand such behavior for Ramsay, the Greyjoy was reluctant to give his brother the same benefit. Though cruel, Ramsay was passionate; he was vengeful in his thrusts; he fucked with fury and force. Theon loved his grunts, his harsh whispers, the way he degraded Theon until he was begging for a reprieve. Domeric was utterly emotionless. And silent. When he spoke, instead of uttering filth, Domeric talked of duty and reputation and _childbearing_ —all things that quickly dried Theon’s quim. He treated Theon like an object—and not in the way the Greyjoy liked. 

If I wanted to fuck a ghost, Theon thought, I would climb to the highest tower of the Dreadfort and meet my maker in such fashion. The thought was tempting. At least there was some finesse in that death, and he couldn't deny that the dead tended to be handsome. 

Theon never dared to voice his complaint. Good wives didn’t speak their minds when their husbands were sexually incompetent. They laid back and thought of Winterfell. Theon reminded himself that he only needed to continue the charade for one more month. One more month until they were married. One more month until Ramsay revealed whatever brilliance he had planned and released Theon from this sad, theatrical role of a faithful and loving spouse. Theon was not sure how long he could keep up the charade. If Domeric's current behavior was any indication of their future, it was clear he was distrusted. Theon almost threw a fit the first time he caught a spy snooping through his belongings. How was he supposed to commit his infidelities when everyone in the castle believed him to be a whore? 

It was rather insulting. 

At least he could spend the rest of their engagement within the bliss of Winterfell. By the time Asha’s men were finished preparing their horses for the frozen keep, Domeric was done spilling in his future wife's mouth. He expressed his approval of Theon’s prompt swallow. “I do hate it when you make a mess.”

Your brother shares a different opinion, Theon thought bitterly. Oh, how he wished his thoughts came from a bard. Theon wipes the drool from his mouth and gets off his knees. “Will that be all, my lord?” He smiled, glossed lips and all.

Domeric nodded. “Take care of yourself.” To anyone else, it sounded like concern. To Theon’s trained ear, it was an order. It seemed Domeric preferred control over all aspects of Theon’s life, including his health. Theon somewhat hoped his body became wracked with chills over the journey, just to spite his horrid soul.

“I will.” Theon kissed Domeric, for he knew the heir despised Theon's lips after they were stained with his essence. “Simply the thought of our upcoming nuptials fills me with unspeakable strength.” Theon bowed his head before leaving. On his way out, Roose walked in. While the sight was not unusual, Theon could not help but be curious. As soon as the door closed, Theon looked around for spies. During his stay, the holdfast filled with watching eyes, desperate to catch his disobedience or worse, Asha’s rebellion. But with the news of the Greyjoy departure, they all returned to their holes like the rats they were. As far as they were concerned, there were no crumbs left.

Theon did not believe gossip was a gift, but rather an obligation. He was a curious creature and loved the whispers of an upcoming threat. After waiting some long, agonizing moments, Theon cracked open the doors. He peeked inside to see if any of the Bolton men were in the shallow beginnings of the room. After confirming that they had retreated to the deeper parts of Domeric’s chambers, farthest away from wandering ears, Theon snuck inside. He got close enough to hear their conversation but was unable to see them. Theon was thankful. Seeing them would have made him lose his nerve.  

“Do you think it is wise to let him leave?” Theon heard Roose ask. The omega immediately hid behind a large wardrobe. He evened out his breaths so that they blended with the air and kept his presence a mystery.

“I wasn’t about to buy the farm without the fields. Once the dowry has arrived, the ceremony will be performed without hesitation. We need that fleet, father.”

“Boltons don’t _need_ anything,” Roose corrected. “We are given what we are owed. Ships won’t be of any service to us if we don’t have a body to man them. If the Starks find out about our plans…”

“They won’t find out,” Domeric assured his father. “Theon is about as astute as a fruit fly. He knows nothing.”

Theon bristled at the comparison.

“Don’t be so sure. He was raised by wolves and here you’ve gone, letting him into our home. Why not buy him the wool to pull over our eyes? It will save him the effort of slaughtering our flock.”

Theon heard Domeric sighed. He took great pleasure his betrothed’s annoyance. “I’ve kept guards on him the entire time. They say the same thing. His only substance is his comeliness. There’s not a drop of cunning in him.”

Theon bit his lip to keep from protesting. Roose must have been unconvinced, for he continued his questioning as if it were an interrogation. “You have a habit of underestimating strays, Domeric. First with your brother and now your bride. Perhaps, I should have turned the other way when you were first bitten. Or at least let your brother's fangs scar. Maybe you would have learned your lesson then.” Roose’s footsteps got louder. Theon huddled further behind the furniture.

“You choose after the dowry to insult my choice? When severing such an engagement would only bring forth another enemy?” Domeric released something of a muffled scoff. “The king regards Lord Stark as a brother. Everyone knows he plans on marrying his son to Lady Sansa.  If it is not the eldest omega, then there is no point. Bastards don’t count, I’m afraid.” There’s an air of bitterness in his voice that reminded Theon of his lover.

“I am not asserting that you chose poorly. On the contrary, your bride is perfectly adequate. The Greyjoy alliance will be useful in the future,” Roose denied. It was the closest thing to a compliment that Theon had ever received from the man.

“Then explain your badgering.”

“I am merely pointing out that we have lost a chance to stake a hold on Winterfell.”

The accusation touched a nerve. “ _You_ were the one who stressed the urgency of my union. I was willing to wait. But you made it clear that we had no time to spare for one of the younger Starks to bloom. _You_ wanted me to act, so I acted.”

“You acted out of jealousy. Don't you deny it,” Roose countered. All those present knew what he was referring to. Theon wondered how much they knew about Ramsay and their affair. Not much, or he would have been long bred to avoid a cuckold. Theon shivered like the pox at the thought. “For someone so ambitious, you tend to indulge in short-sightedness. You never even considered the opportunities the Snow would have given you.”

“He is a bastard. Do you expect me to sully our line with natural filth? You, who opposed the fostering of my own flesh and blood?”

“Bastards can rise high with the right circumstances. A marriage to the Snow would have allowed you to sow your seeds within Stark soil.” Roose countered. “Even that bastard has more claim on Winterfell than you.”

“Be reasonable, father.” Domeric used that title in a way that could have been considered _mocking_. “Dragons will fly before a bastard sits on a throne.”  

“Then if nothing else, we would have the protection of hostage.” Roose was smug, even Theon knew it. “Beloved by his father and worshipped by his brother. How willing would they be to launch a siege, knowing that the grains they’ve burned would starve their precious omega? How likely would it be for their hands to tremble and their swords to drop once they saw a knife to his throat?”

Roose words correctly humbled his son, for Domeric did not respond. Theon shared the sentiment. His body shook, and he fought to keep his tremors silent. He knew the Boltons carried no love for the Starks, but he never imagined a betrayal of such a scale. A _rebellion_? Theon shut his eyes and prayed to whoever was listening to keep him unseen. Now, more than ever, his life was in danger. If they found him, he would be skinned into submission and his tongue severed.

“Be that as it may, it would be more suspicious to marry him so soon. In the presence of thin patience, they might assume ulterior motives.” Domeric defended at last. “If he is clever enough to figure out our plans—and I say this with doubt—he won’t reveal himself here. We will wait until he is at ease. We will find out what he knows soon enough.”

When the men moved to leave, Theon held his breath. As a child, he learned to forgo air for a considerable length, a consequence of his sea drawn blood. Even in Winterfell, Theon took to swimming in the springs for hours at the time.

Each step made his heart beat quicker. Theon thought his heart would burst when Domeric paused, a foot away from Theon’s hiding spot. Theon shut his eyes so hard he thought he would go blind. After fixing his sleeve, Domeric walked away.

Finally, the Boltons were gone.

Theon, with an uncharacteristic amount of self-control, waited some time until he was sure they were not coming back. Once his fears were unconfirmed, he dashed outside and ran until he reached his quarters. He locked the doors, and once he was alone, he collapsed onto the floor and started heaving in agony. His vision blurred and his mind was in shambles. All he could think about was the Starks.

He needed to go to Winterfell.

***

Asha could not ride away fast enough. Her desire to leave the Dreadfort was only beaten by her brother, who was racing his horse as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his feet. While she was thankful for their departure, a part of her couldn’t help but be annoyed at her brother’s eagerness to return to _home_. The Iron Islands should be what encouraged such desperation, not Winterfell.

Once they reached a flowing stream, Asha ordered their party to settle for the night.  

“Nightfall won’t come for hours!” Theon protested. “We should try and get as far as we can.”

Asha glared at her little brother. “We only brought a limited amount of food. Water means game and game means a hunt.”

“But—”

“And while you may be familiar with the Northern terrain, we are not,” Asha reminded, almost as if she were accusing him of something. “Who is to say where we will end up if we go farther?  We can’t risk being on open land. It’s too dangerous.”

“We can de—”

“We are seafarers, Theon. We find ourselves on a field, and it will end with us starving and surrounded.”

Theon bit his lower lip as if he were fighting a pout. Asha wanted to growl at him. A tantrum was the last thing she wanted. For a brief moment, Asha considered utilizing her alpha voice before her common sense told her to stop. The relationship was resting on a rope, and a move like that would have them tumbling to their deaths. A part her was scared, for she knew that the command only worked amongst close family members. Would her voice work on her brother? Would the Starks hold on him be so strong as to dissolve the salt in his veins?

Asha’s thoughts were interrupted by a huff. She watched as Theon bundled up his dress—his disgusting, overly revealing dress—and stomped over to a nearby trunk. He rested upon it, making a show of his petulance. Theon was refusing to set up camp.

“Do you plan on making my men do your dirty work?” 

Theon did not answer.

“You are not a child.”

Theon crossed his arms.

“You spoilt brat,” she hissed.

Theon turned away.

“They won’t help you,” Asha warned. “I won’t let them.” She missed a beat. “You will sleep in the dirt.” Asha clenched her fist. “And when we get back from the hunt, no one will share their food with you.”  

“I don’t care!”  

Asha scowled. “Is returning to that place so important to you?”  
Theon faltered; he glanced over at their party and wondered if any of them were Bolton’s spies. When he couldn’t tell, he looked away. “You wouldn’t understand,” he answered at last.

Asha did not know the source of his fear so when he turned away again; she was left with the frustration of inadequacy. Theon was choosing the Starks over her—again. He always picked them, and she feared the choice would never cease. Without saying another word, she returned to work. When they finished setting up, she took her men out for a hunt, leaving two behind for her brother’s protection.  

***

As soon as Asha left, Theon's gut filled with the familiar dread of defeat. There was no way he could set up his tent now—not when doing so ensures Asha’s victory. He planned to make a show of his shivering, maybe sniffle a bit to win her guilt. Instead, he was cold and alone, watched over by men who could care less if he dropped dead. He tightened his arms around his shoulders to fend off the wind.

Out of nowhere, Theon heard a scream.

The Greyjoy watched as arrows shot out from a distance and into the hearts of his sister’s guards. The men fell to the ground as Theon took off running. He could hear them following him. He struggled to maneuver his way through the trees and cursed his luck when his dress caught in the branches. Injuries came throughout the chase; an oak scraped his forearm and wood slit his cheek. There was barking in the distance and the galloping of stallions. Theon shuddered at the thought of the hounds finding him—he knew how adept those beasts were at finding prey.

No matter how hard he tried, Theon could not run forever. He reached the stream that drew Asha’s attention in the first place, and though the water was shallow enough to cross, the ground underneath was softer than he would have liked. He slipped as soon as he stepped in, and the time it took for him to regain his balance was enough time for his assailant to grab him.

The man who hunted him was a harried soul who heaved as if he were drowning. He wrestled Theon to the ground. Theon fought until his fingers bled. “Let me go!” He shouted. He scratched the man’s eyes, and even when his nails stabbed into the pulsing corneas, the man did not falter. Theon was too scared to notice the dried blood on his body, and how his mutilated flesh was colored purple.

“He’ll kill me!” The man screamed. “He’ll kill me!”

Theon did not bother to ask questions. He continued to fight until his strength lost to desperation. The man latched onto Theon’s throat and squeezed with his bony fingers. Some of the flesh had been skinned off, and the foul of iron filled Theon’s nostrils. He choked on the smell and lack of air.

“Let…me…go...!” Theon gasped out. He managed to kick the man in the groin, and while he howled in pain, it only gave Theon a second to escape. As soon as he tried to get away, the man grabbed his dress and pulled him down. The man was more determined than ever to take Theon’s life. He pressed all his weight down on Theon’s throat. Theon could feel water dripping onto his cheeks and in his mouth. Soured with salt, Theon noticed there were tears mixed in with the blood.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” He whimpered. “He’ll kill me! I can’t…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…he’ll kill me!”

Theon felt his life drain out of his lungs. He continued to struggle and reached out for any stone or stick that could save him. Even as he lost his breath, he thought about the Starks and the danger that was near. He dreamed of being their savior, about making Lord Stark proud.

And finally, he thought about Ramsay and the life they could have shared if he lived.

“Ramsay…” Theon choked as his vision darkened.  

It was like whispering a spell.

The man who would have been Theon’s murderer cried out in agony. The name alone was enough to manifest his fear into deep, physical pain, raw and real as a knife. His paranoia opened the blisters on his body and made the bones rise through his flayed skin. He screamed to the heavens for forgiveness and down to the hells for help.

“He is here! He is here!” he cried to the skies. The man’s madness motivated him to act faster, and he tightened his grip on Theon’s neck. His behavior was brutal and stunning in its intensity. Paralysis plagued Theon’s body. Even when a knife pierced through the man’s neck, Theon did not respond. When the man’s disfigured form dropped on top of his, Theon remained silent and still. It was not until he saw his lover’s familiar, wet-lipped smile, the one that only widened with a sated bloodlust, that he felt relief.

“Ramsay,” he whispered again, this time with joy lingering on every letter.

Ramsay grinned and kicked the corpse to the side. He eyed Theon’s soiled body like a butcher appraising a freshly hunted hog. Shame coursed through Theon. The omega desperately desired a bath or at least a cleaning cloth. His dress was in tatters, revealing his bouncing breasts, and he was as dirty as a cadaver.

“Please don’t look,” Theon begged. “I am disgusting, I—”

“—You,” Ramsay interrupted as he crouched to the ground. He pushed Theon on his back and crawled between his thighs. “—Are exactly as I want you.”

Theon remembered his attacker’s flayed patches and tipless fingers and his mind began to spin with a dizzying amount of colors. His cunt dripped when Ramsay’s shadow fell on top of him and he could feel the weight of his cock press against him.

“Why…?” But his questions were devoured by Ramsay’s lips. The bastard tore away the rest of Theon’s clothing and left him with shreds as shields. Theon’s thighs wrapped around the younger man’s waist, pressing his wet cunt against Ramsay’s cock. Ramsay responded by digging his fangs into Theon’s collarbone, releasing a high pitch yelp from the Greyjoy.

The sound of submission raised a shudder in Ramsay’s back. “Slut,” Ramsay growled, trying to cover up his arousal. “Disgusting bitch,” he accused as rubbed harder against Theon. His cock only swelled after being soaked with the honey. “Look at you,” Ramsay grunted out. “Look at the way your cunt is drooling over me. I’m so wet because of your dripping cunt. You’re a whore. You’re a desperate, filthy _whore_.”

Theon could only pant out his wantonness. He arched his back to push up against Ramsay. He wanted to feel every sharp edge, every muscular curve of the bastard’s form. When Theon tried to set him up, Ramsay slammed him down with greater force. “Stay down, fucking whore,” he commanded. He pushed his cock into Theon’s entrance and didn’t stop until his balls were trying stuff themselves inside. Theon squeezed his eyes shut and let out another keening wail. “Take my cock like the slut you are. You like it when I take you like this? Like it when I bury my cock so deep, you swell up?” It had been forever since his last breeding and his body did not hesitate to welcome the intrusion. His ruined cunt was starving, hungry for the familiar taste of a hard fucking. Theon’s pussy stretched around the cock. He felt better than good; he felt _full_.

“More,” Theon begged. “Fuck me, please!”

Ramsay pulled himself until his tip was kissing his pussy lips before thrusting all the way back in. Theon screamed. Ramsay continued hammering into him until his cunt was growing red with overuse.

“Does my brother fuck you this good?” Ramsay asked with a deranged grin. “Bet his tiny dick can’t please you as I can. Bet he can’t fuck you the way you need.” He pounded into Theon harder and dug so deep, Theon swore he was blacking out. “Or do you like his cock to mine?” Ramsay’s knot swelled up against his womb.

Theon screamed. “No!” The knot was huge. He was being treated like one of Ramsay’s whores, the ones fortunate to get raped by his massive manhood, the ones who got to taste Ramsay’s cock on a more frequent basis than him. It was unfair how they got to be used and brutalize because of their common cunts while he was only given a taste in secret. He wanted to be fucked so well that Ramsay only wanted him for the rest of his life. He wanted to get ruined so badly that no other cock compared. “No! No one else but you. I want your cock! I want—ah!” Theon lost his voice and his eyes filled with hearts as his tongue stuck out like some heated bitch.

Ramsay picked up his pace, which Theon thought to be impossible. He was fucking him at a brutal speed, and every sense of reason he had was being overwhelmed by his primitive instinct. Theon could only beg for more. His nails dug into Ramsay’s back as he spread his legs for more.

This was how alphas were supposed to be like, Theon thought before his vision faded. Alphas were beasts; they weren’t meant to be in control of their omegas, they were supposed to lose control around them.

After Theon lost his consciousness, Ramsay gave a few more thrusts and settled his knot deep into his womb. Theon hoped he would wake up to several loads for the road ahead. At the moment, his desire for Ramsay was the only thing keeping him calm.

***  

Throughout her life, Asha had braved storms and battled pirates, dealt with potential mutinies and treacherous traders; she was known for her fearlessness towards danger and brutality towards foes. She earned the respect of her men; men who sailed with her and would die for her, men who would never respect another woman, alpha or not, for as long as did live. Yet nothing brought made her panic more than the sight of her camp deserted, her men slaughtered, and her little brother missing.

Asha ordered her men to separate in every direction of the forest. “Return before sundown,” she ordered. If they could not find him, they would need to discuss a plan of action. Her words died in her throat when she heard a rustle coming from the trees. She motioned them to freeze. All men placed their hands on their swords and held onto their quivers. Asha sat on her horse, tense as a board with a hand on her ax.

A young man, younger than both her and Theon, with dark, dry hair and eyes pale as ice shards soiled in the mud, walked into the clearing with her brother in his arms. He was followed by a group of other unsavory alphas, each one more revolting than the next with their soiled clothes and bloody skin. Anger colored her vision red before fear shone clear; she could not risk harming the man while he had his hands on her brother.

When he saw her, he gripped Theon a little more firmly—as if he were a shield. Before she could question him, he spoke, “Are you Lord Theon’s guardian?”

Asha gripped the reigns harder, and if felt so tight she swore the leather was going to cut through her skin. “He is my brother.” She growled. “What did you do to him?”

The man slowly walked forward. All of Asha’s men began to unsheathe their swords. It was then the man paused, and Asha was forced to have them stand down.

“Don’t make any moves,” she commanded.

The men released their holds on their weapons.

Satisfied by their pacification, the man walked forward again. “My name is Ramsay…Snow,” he told her. “I am Lord Bolton’s son.”

The name did nothing to soothe Asha’s ire. If anything, she was more riled up. She had the good sense to let the man continue but unlike her soldiers, kept her free hand on her knife. There was an air of cruelty about him, and she learned as a child to never trust a man who spoke like a breeze in the middle of a storm. “You must be Lady Asha.”

“What did you do to him?” Asha shouted. Just the sight of him with Theon made her skin prickle. She could not stop the horrible Bolton boy from laying his eyes on her brother, but she would be damned if another alpha thought he had the right. “You better pray I don’t ask again.”

“I mean no harm,” Ramsay said quickly. “I came to return him to you.”

In his arms, Theon made a little cry of distress. The sound moved Asha off her horse and towards her brother. Ramsay handed him to her without a fight. When she took him, he whimpered. His skin felt hot and clammy, and she feared a fever was treading closer.  

“You should be more gentle,” Ramsay instructed. “He is hurt.”

“Don’t tell me how to treat my omega!” she snarled.

Ramsay raised his hands up in surrender. He carried only a falchion and a flaying knife—customary of hunters. “Forgive my insolence. I only wish for his safety. He will, after all, be my good brother. I hold him _very dear._ ”

There was slickness to his words that made her feel like eels were crawling up her skin. More than ever, Asha was aware of her situation. She released her brother into the hands of Tristifer Botley, the sole omega in her party. He was the only one she trusted with such a task, for he loved her dearly and would never harm anyone precious to her. “Wash him and have him dressed for bed.”

Tris casted a wary eye on the bastard boy. “And what of him?”

Asha turned to Ramsay. “I will deal with him.”  

Ramsay did not seem displeased with the notion, though he was unhappy to be parted from Theon. He watched Tristifer with eyes of hatred as soon as he laid hands on the omega. When Asha was in front of him, however, his face took on an amiable expression. Asha sneered at the change. She hated him already.  

“Lady Asha—”

Asha never let him finish his sentence. She shoved him against the closest surface—a large oak whose only use was to scratch scars into his back. “I’m going to ask you once.” Asha’s axe swung until it hit the trunk left of his face, allowing the blade to slide against his cheek. “What happened to my brother?” Asha asked.

His men made a motion to act, but like the good dogs they were, they stayed without further command.

Impressive, she thought. He had them well trained, and it wasn’t out of kindness.

The bastard’s lips twitched, and for a second, she swore she saw a semblance of a smirk. She told herself she was seeing things, for only a fool or a madman would find her behavior amusing. His façade shifted to a frown, and he portrayed a good Samaritan so well that if Asha were from the mainland, she would have believed him incapable of wrongdoing.

“He was...attacked,” Ramsay revealed with enough hesitance to make him sound distressed. “I found him violated by an alpha near a stream. It was a horrible sight.” Ramsay shook his head as if the memory brought upon physical pain. “The man was foaming at the mouth and screaming nonsense. Mad and deranged as a rabid dog; as if he could not understand human speech. I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything more revolting in my life. I cut him down as soon as I could reach him but—” Ramsay sighed. “I was too late.”

Asha gave him a disbelieving look followed by one of disgust. “And I’m sure you were there to reap the benefits.”

Ramsay became indignant. “When I saw him, I recognized him at once as my _brother’s_ betrothed,” he clarified with some strength. “I was at Theon’s ceremony. I heard he was being transferred to Winterfell before the wedding and thought it would be Lord Robb who accompanied him. As a friend, I took on the duty of seeing his foster brother safely escorted back home.”

“How kind of you,” Asha mocked. She picked up the irregularities at once. “But a bastard and a lord? _Friends_?”

“Lord Robb holds no prejudice towards bastards if his feelings for his brother are any indication.” Ramsay gave her a firm stare. “And even if we were not, it is the duty of an alpha to defend an omega’s virtue. Alphas are not baseless creatures. We do not all derive pleasure from watching them be knotted like whores and brutalized like game.”

“So I am to believe you had no ill intentions towards my brother?” She remembered how thoroughly he was stripped, as bare as a skinned deer for dressing. “My beautiful, _bare-chested_ brother?”

Ramsay walked over to an empty spot and rested his bag as if he planned to set camp. Asha had every mind to stop him, but he continued, “Regardless if you believe me or not, I have done my duties. Though his violation brings me no pleasure, I am glad Robb is faultless. I hope he shares my sentiment.”

Asha tensed. Despite his behaviors and tones and words and wisdom, she knew he was purposely egging her on into conflict. “What do you mean?”

Ramsay peered at her—as if he were judging her every move and motion. “It is my firm belief that this would not have happened under Robb’s watch—and if it did, he would have never forgiven himself. They’re as close as blood, him and Theon.”

Asha’s eyes flashed in anger. “Do you mean to say Theon and I are strangers?” she snarled. “That I could care less that my brother was raped?”

“I mean no offense,” Ramsay told her. “Nonetheless, I know Robb Stark is a good man. He knows better than to allow an omega to be accompanied by any number less than four guards. It was pure carelessness that led to these events. You owe the Starks an explanation for Theon’s sullying.”

“I owe them nothing,” Asha hissed. “My brother has not been sullied. He was ravaged against his will. If the Starks have any honor, they will not hold him accountable.”  

Ramsay nodded in agreement. “The Starks would not.” He glanced over at his men before turning back to Asha. “But my brother will.”

Asha’s blood turned to ice. The winter finally struck, and every instinct in her bones urged her to hit the man in front of her. Keep his forked tongue silent for good.

“My brother is a traditionalist,” Ramsay explained. “He will not be happy that Theon’s flower was stolen before he had a chance to pick it. According to our laws, it may give him rightful precedent to break off the engagement.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” These fucking mainlanders and their fucking archaic beliefs, Asha thought with fury.

Ramsay shook his head. “I am afraid I am not.”

“Then you will bite your tongue,” Asha warned him. “Before I cut it from you.”

Ramsay grimaced. “As frightening as your threats are, I am afraid you are rather outnumbered.” It was true. Ramsay’s party outnumbered her own by a small margin. The two guarding Theon was dead, and she left most of her crewmates behind to ensure faster travel. They were long sailing to the Iron Islands, something she wished she had done, with or without Theon’s consent.

“I don’t need better numbers to make one good swing,” Asha reminded him.  

Ramsay appeared to have a never-ending supply of responses. “And so you would abandon your brother once more? I won’t be able to rescue him _again_ if I am dead.” The reminder hurt more than an arrow.

Ramsay sighed when he saw her furious expression. “I don’t know your brother very well, but I owe mine a great deal.” He turned to the direction of the Dreadfort. “He took me, a mere bastard, into his home and allowed me to be raised as if we shared the same mother. I cannot openly deceive him with this knowledge. I have to tell him, regardless of the effects it will have on your family.” Ramsay looked down. “I am sorry but this is my duty.”

Asha found the story less believable by the second. She didn’t trust this man as far as she could throw him. “What do you want?” Asha snapped.

Ramsay seemed surprised by the question. “I beg your pardon?”  

“What do you want to keep your fucking mouth shut?” Asha asked him. “You want something. I know it.”

“Lady Asha, you misunderstand my intentions. I am doing this for the love of one sibling to another—”

Before she could insert more accusations into the conversation, Tris ran out of the tent to inform her of her brother’s health.

“He’s awoken!” Tris shouted. He turned to Asha with eyes of adoration, for he knew the good news would bring joy to her being and that alone was enough to make him happy. “He is weakened but awake. And hungry,” he added, for appetite was a well-known sign of health.

Asha’s heart swelled in relief. She turned her heel to run when Ramsay grabbed her arm.

She shoved him away at once.

“Don’t touch me!” She shouted. “I will cut—”

“Let me speak to him,” Ramsay interrupted.

Asha was taken back. “What?”

“Let me speak to him,” Ramsay repeated. “I don’t want to ruin this marriage any more than you do. My brother is smitten, and though our interactions were brief, I can tell Theon will be a faithful, loving wife. If you let me join you on your journey and my impression is accurate, then I will have no qualms holding my tongue.”

Asha made a noise to refuse, but she saw Tris waiting for by the tent, staring at them with confusion. She realized that if she did not accept his offer, he would be off to Dreadfort to inform his brother of the news. As much as she hated the Boltons, she knew how desperately Theon wanted this marriage. Their relationship was mending and completely dependent on her support from here on out. If she killed him in his sleep, she would have killed the man who saved her brother. Theon was soft; he wouldn’t forgive her for such an act.

“Fine,” she said at last. “But don’t think for a second you will have any privacy with him. He is my brother and _my_ omega.” Regardless of what that horrible man had to say about it. “And I’ll be damn if I let anyone put their hands on him again.”

Asha left to take care of her brother. As soon as she and her men were out of sight, a sinister glower took over Ramsay’s face.

“Fucking bitch.”  

Theon was _his_.

***

Asha was never one for tears, but she forced herself to withstand her brother’s mourning. He cried about his maidenhood being taken from him, how he was violated like some slave girl on a dry rock. She would be there for him, she told herself, for all the tears she missed for before. Inwardly, she was rather proud of herself for maintaining her composure. She said nothing of the mainlanders’ outdated values, nor did she spare a scathing comment towards his betrothed and his potential judgment. She wanted desperately to tell Theon that his worth was the same if he were to return home—she could marry him to one of her most trusted men, and he would be safely within their home. But Asha never spoke her thoughts out loud.  

She held onto her brother for a little longer.

When Theon was done with his whimpering, he turned to Asha. “And what of my savior? What about Ramsay?”

The shock did nothing to his memory, much to Asha’s displeasure. His story collaborated with Ramsay’s own, and he seemed rather… _infatuated_ with the young man. When he spoke of his rescue, his heroism was overdramatized. Gallant, he told her. Asha knew it was the trauma speaking; _gallant_ was not a word she would use for such a slimy creature.   

“He is outside,” Asha answered. “He is staying for the rest of our journey.”

A broad smile appeared on Theon’s face. “Truly?”

Asha narrowed her eyes at the sight. “He wishes to make an assessment of your character,” Asha quickly clarified. She would not have him romanticizing the man any longer. “You are _sullied_ …according to their standards. He is unsure of whether he will keep his silence on the matter.”

Theon paused. To her disappointment, Theon’s smile only dimmed, not dropped. “I see.”

Asha tried fruitlessly to persuade him. “Theon, if these people are willing to condemn you for this, they aren’t worth our shit let alone our time. Come back home and I will—”

 “—He is a reasonable man,” Theon interrupted her. “I am sure his heart will lead him to my side.” He fixed up his hair despite it being nightfall. Everyone would be eating or sleeping while he rested in his sister’s tent. He was searching for something—a mirror no doubt. The boy was hopelessly vain. “As long as I do my best to please him, of course.”

Asha did not wonder why that statement made her feel more unease, and she certainly did not appreciate the explanation the next morning.

***

Asha watched her _baby_ brother leave his tent in the worse dress he has worn so far. It dipped to his navel and tightened around his waist, revealing every curve and highlighted all aspects of his golden skin. He walked over to the campfire where the soup was stewing and sat beside the Bolton bastard. She watched as Theon prepared him a bowl—acting like his subservient salt wife whose next meal laid in his master’s loins. Asha sneered at the sight.

“How are you feeling?” Ramsay asked. His fingers brushed against Theon’s own and he stroked the omega’ knuckles when given the soup. “I would have visited last night, but you never left your tent. I felt it imprudent to enter an omega’s room alone.”

“I am feeling better,” Theon answered at first. “Especially now that I can give my thanks. You were mistaken, my lord,” he informed Ramsay, who raised an eyebrow at the statement. “It would have been my honor to greet my savior. If not for your intervention, I would not be here now, feasting on the food or your presence.” Theon pressed his hand against Ramsay’s thigh and squeezed the meatiest part. Ramsay glanced at the palm but did not attempt to move it. If anything, he was encouraging Theon’s brazenness. Asha wondered if this was part of her brother’s plan—seduce the man into silence. It was a low, tawdry trick that she wanted no part of, but had no choice but to permit.

No, permit was a strong word, Asha thought bitterly. Tolerate was a better fit.

Like a scoundrel, Ramsay leaned in close to whisper something inaudible to the party. Theon giggled and took Ramsay’s bowl from him. He scooped up the stew and fed Ramsay by the spoonful. Asha found their display revolting; she sought to uproot the foundation of this travesty by starting an interrogation.

“I heard you’ve been acquainted before,” Asha pointed out.

“Briefly. At his ceremony,” Ramsay answered for both of them. “But our passing glances were not nearly a good enough introduction. My good brother is even more lovely up close.” He leaned into Theon’s collarbone and took a deep breath—inhaling his salted scent. Theon preened.  

How sickening, Asha thought.

“He’s not your good brother yet,” Asha reminded with an edge. “That’s what you’re still here for, is it not? To see if my brother is _worthy_?”

Theon’s shoulders drop in disappointment. He glared at his sister for reminding him. “Asha, you’re being rude,” he critiqued with his nose turn up and his reason turned away. He pressed his swelling breasts against Ramsay’s shoulders; Asha betted her brother would have laid on his lap if it weren’t for the audience. “It is Ramsay’s right to get to know the wife of the preemptive Lord Bolton.”  

“You will have plenty of time to get to know each other, won’t you?” Asha asked. “When he marries your brother.”  

The mention of marriage made Ramsay’s eyes flash with irritation, or rather, her constant interruption was the cause. Even Theon seemed annoyed by her chiming. Instead of continuing the conversation with his trademark slyness and quick retorts, Ramsay opted to change the topic. “Once you’ve garnered enough rest and food, I know of a small town south of the Lonely Hills. It is a common stopping point for travelers so their inns should have enough room to fit all of us.” He turned to Theon. “Their beds are quite comfortable.”  

Theon fluttered his lashes. “I’ll take your word for it.”

What a fucking slut the Starks raised, she thought. She knew it wasn’t her doing that made Theon this way. She allowed her accusations to rain in her head until they took their horses in the directions given by the bastard. Theon, despite his snobbishness, had no complaints towards camping—simply that he wanted to get to Winterfell as fast as possible. Still, she wanted Theon to have some comfort after his attack.

“I spoil him too much,” she muttered in disgust. Asha was never one to let her affections get in the way of her common sense, but Theon always made her lose her good judgment.

That didn’t mean Asha was willing to let Theon’s behavior slide. She did not know what filth occurred in Winterfell, but the ironborn weren’t _beggars_. They wanted and they took. Hell will run like Winterfell before she let Theon beseech the bastard for sympathy.

Once they settled into their rooms, Asha confronted her brother on the matter. Theon was in the middle of discussing their travel plans when she did so.

“Do you believe spreading your legs will close his mouth, or are you that much of a whore?” The words left her mouth out of habit—it wasn’t that she had forgotten her tact, for she never had it to begin with. Theon was definitely their mother’s child, and he absolutely _fell apart_  like her.

“You are unbelievable!” Shoving his clothes back into his travel bag, Theon tried to storm out of the room only to be stopped by Asha’s frame.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Asha, with just as much indignation and twice the force, pushed him back into the room. “You cling to him like a starving barnacle! If I weren’t around, you’d be riding him like a stolen horse!”

“He saved my life!” Theon shouted. “Forgive me if I find comfort in his presence!”

Asha scoffed. “I think we can stop pretending that you find him _comforting_ ,” she mocked. “You want him to fuck you. All you’ve done in his presence is heighten your skirt and open your laces. He puts the finger on your waist and your cunt is _dripping wet_. Do you think I’m blind?” Asha accused. She had a number of suspicions on where else he placed his hands; a pinched nipple, a teasing grope. Theon allowed _everything_ ; gasping and moaning as the bastard took his liberties with his flesh. “I bet you wished he’d come earlier and taken your rapist’s place between your thighs.”  

Theon made an outraged, guttered noise. The sound reminded her of dying deer. “I will not stay here only to be insulted.”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Theon turned up his nose at his sister in rebellion. “Ramsay asked me to meet him for a drink in the tavern.”

Asha narrowed her eyes. “You are not going anywhere with him.” The fucking bastard was trying to pull one over on her! After she distinctively made it clear she needed to present for all their interactions together.

“I am not a child!” Theon protested. “I can see him if I please!”

“Not—” Asha blocked his way before walking him further into the room and away from the door. “—without the permission of your guardian. Which I am appointed as, and I. Say. No.”

Theon made several more attempts to escape before stomping his feet in frustration. “This is not fair!”

“Neither is life,” Asha retorted smoothly. She grabbed her cloak to fend off some of the North’s cold—the weather was atrocious in these lands. “As for the bastard, I am going to have a few words for him.” Planning to meet her brother in secret was unforgivable, and she would get to the bottom of his scheme. “You are not to stray, or else I will inform your betrothed of the incident and drag you back to the islands myself!”

Theon’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.” 

 “I would,” Asha disagreed, for she never bluffed.

“I will never forgive you,” Theon threatened. “And I swear, Robb will bring me back.”

“I don’t care.” Not if it means keeping her omega safe.  

The caring sentiment did nothing to sway Theon’s heart. He kicked up a fuss but Asha remained adamant about her decision. When she left to confront the Bolton bastard, she did not bother to appoint guards in front of his room. She knew her brother and being as vain as he was, she knew he would not allow the truth to sully his reputation. He would stay—sullen as a prince without supper—but he would stay.

Asha’s suspicions were not unfounded, for Theon’s plans to escape were halted as soon as she made the threat. He paced around his room, terrified of Ramsay’s wrath, and paid no mind to his surroundings in the process. He had always been guilty of tunnel vision—oblivious to the obvious when enamored. Even when his door knocked, he did not find anything odd about the situation. He went ahead and opened it.

***

While Asha stalled Theon’s straying, she did not account for Ramsay’s maneuvering.

The woman kept a close watch on her brother and was— _rightfully so_ —distrustful of the bastard. This was why he told Theon to meet him at the tavern located in the farthest region of the town. Ramsay was sure she would find out about their clandestine tryst, and try to intervene. The time allowed Ramsay to make a trip of his own.

Theon was speechless when he saw Ramsay at his door, and the silence continued as the younger man lunged onto his lips and kissed him hungrily. On instinct alone, Theon kissed back. His lips swelled until they threatened to burst, and yet nothing could quell his excitement. He tangled his fingers into the bastard’s hair and let the man attack his neck with as much ferocity as a starving hound. He wanted so badly to have a mark. He imagined wearing a few on his wedding night, all tucked away in his white dress, bubbling on top of his supposed virginal flesh. The dirt burns from kneeling in front of the heart tree would boil his glee—it would be too late for the Bolton lord to do anything. The anticipation —oh, how his mouth watered at the thought—from how his betrothed would slowly strip him of his dress only to see that he had been cuckold like some dim-witted sparrow!

The whole scene made him giggle, sparked Ramsay’s ire.

The murderer pushed Theon onto the bed, and no amount of sheets could soften his blow. “What are you laughing about?” He hissed.

Theon could not stop smiling. Boldly and recklessly, he answered, “Your brother.”

The callous omega knew exactly what he was doing, and though fear flushed through his veins, an equal amount of amusement followed. Ramsay ripped off his undergarments and brashly opened his pants.

Theon urged him to stop. He wanted to prolong their pleasure. He wanted the risk of being caught to strengthen. Perhaps he could confirm Asha’s fears, make her suffer for calling him a whining whore. He would look her in the eye and sweetly tell her how he bought Ramsay’s silence—he would say the man snuck into his room and offered to sing laurels of praise in exchange for a night. Theon would tell her, in wide-eyed naivety, how gentle Ramsay was when he entered him. “He promised to pull out, but I was too tight for him. It was my fault, Asha, I swear.” Or, he could blush and tell her, “Ramsay wanted to test out my holes, to prove I wasn’t a whore. I did not pass the first time—I kept milking his dick. But he gave me _so many chances_.”

The thought delighted him as much as Ramsay’s cock. Before the younger man could enter, Theon explained.

“I want to see his face,” Theon breathed out. Ramsay stilled upon the declaration. “I want to see him unravel as he figures out who his _stupid_ wife has been fucking behind his back. How loose you’ve made me hours before the ceremony, how he’ll look when he realizes he’s just dipped his dick into his brother’s cum.” Theon pawed at his shirt. “I want to watch as you chop off his _cold, vile prick_ and feed it to him. I want him to see you fuck me—my real alpha.”

Ramsay had never been more hard in his life. For the first time, he touched Theon in a matter that could have been construed as affectionate.

“You _marvelous_ thing,” Ramsay whispered, in awe almost. “You hate him more than I do.” The young man never thought such a thing was possible. His cock was leaking and sore.

Theon’s nails latched onto his lover’s shirt and pulled him on top of him. Their faces were almost pressed against each other. He could feel Ramsay’s cock on top of his own.

“He doesn’t _see_ me,” Theon told him hatefully. “I am nothing to him, an unwanted gift taken to receive favor from the giver.” The feeling was familiar. “I will not be a piece of glass, Ramsay. An ornament to display at convenience. Not again.”

Ramsay complied with his wishes, for he wanted nothing more than to devour the older boy whole. He shoved his cock into Theon’s cunt with ease, given how much Theon was gushing. Theon immediately clenched around Ramsay’s cock. His mouth dropped as he released a hollow scream. His eyes fluttered in pleasure while his chest bounced, catching Ramsay’s attention. He snatched the older boy’s breast and squeezed it hard as he thrusted.

“I should decorate you with gems and stones,” Ramsay mused. “Pierce these oversized utters of yours and parade you like a prized cow. You’ll look so good in silver…”

Theon twisted his hips to accommodate the boy’s engorged cock. It wouldn’t be long until he was knotted and he wanted the ball pressed against his womb. “G-gold…” Theon stuttered out.

Ramsay raised an eyebrow.

“I-I look better in gold—ah!”

Ramsay forced him inside deeper. His thrusts became more violent and Theon swore his puffy lips were getting turned inside out. It was a marvelous feeling, being bred so thoroughly. He was sure the cum would stay inside his body for weeks, no matter how hard he scrubbed.  
“You greedy whore,” Ramsay hissed. He nonetheless agreed. “Gold, gold, and garnets. I’ll have you covered in them. Pierced on your breasts, your cock, this _over-eager clit_ of yours.”   

Ramsay continued to churn pleasure into Theon’s body with every move, and his words were the added seasoning he needed for release. Theon spread his legs further, which resulted in deeper thrusts on Ramsay’s side. The Greyjoy swore the younger man was inside his womb with each thrust. He couldn’t help but drag his nails across the boy’s back.

Ramsay growled. That was sure to leave marks. He could smell the blood.

Theon did not stop, nor was he commanded to.

“R-Ramsay! Oh!” Theon was spent from exhaustion. He shuddered around the fat cock and let his slick flood his sheets. Ramsay’s cock was drenched. While his cunt was worn out, the younger man continued to take his time. Theon laid on the bed limp as he was used; it hurt, but in the blessed way that an omega should feel when he satisfied his alpha. Finally, Ramsay released a healthy load inside him and withdrew with a satisfied grin.

Unable to part with a single round, Ramsay tempted fate by sliding next to him. “Should I fuck you a second time?” It’ll be a while before he was hard again, but it would be worth it.

Theon perished the thought. “Asha will be back soon. Once she finds out you’re not there, she’ll come running back.” She was most likely on her way now.  

Ramsay sighed in distaste. “A wild bitch, that sister of yours.” He thinks back to how she laid her hands on _his_ omega. Possessive. _Threatening_.

“She means well,” Theon supposed. “She wants to get to know me better.” She was trying, at the very least. He turned so that he was facing Ramsay. His hand stroked his chest. Though not on the level of Robb, Ramsay was fit enough to draw the eye. If it weren’t for his vicious face and blood-curdling smile, he would have drawn plenty of willing partners on his own. Theon was grateful for small mercies.

God forbid he be the ugly one in their relationship.  

“Besides…if she does come; I can always take care of her in my _special way_ …” Ramsay sang with the sharpness of a knife. _His_ knife. “You could be the last Greyjoy. You can have the islands.”  

Theon frowned. It grew deeper when he pictured Asha’s flayed body wrestling with the hounds. _You betrayed me_ , her eyes would sing.

“…They won’t accept me as their leader,” Theon disagreed. He remembered Asha saying such and he’s grateful for the way out of the sororicide. “And if someone calls a kingsmoot—an election on the islands—I doubt I would win.”

Ramsay hummed, disappointed by his failed plan. He got up to get dressed, but Theon could tell his mind was still winding.

The omega tried to dissuade him from another plot by changing the topic. “Besides, Asha has agreed to give me away. If she does not perform her duties, Robb or Lord Stark will have to step in and I…” Theon hesitated; he wondered if he should reveal his eavesdropping. He knew there was no love lost between Ramsay and his brother, but Lord Bolton was a separate issue. How far would Ramsay go to gain a title from his father? If there was anything Theon knew about, it was the lengths some people would go for approval. He, himself, had considered poisoning Lord Stark a number of times—namely at the beginning of his fostering. Even now, he wondered what he would sacrifice to attain even a sliver of affection from his sire.  “I don’t want Robb or Lord Stark near your family any longer than they have to be,” Theon finally revealed. “They aren’t safe at the Dreadfort.”

“What do you mean?”

Theon watched Ramsay put on his shirt. After some hesitance, he answered: “Ramsay, I think they are planning treason.”  

A paused passed between them. Finally, Ramsay asked, “How do you know that?”

Theon was relieved. Though the younger man sounded surprised, he did not deny that it was inside the realm of plausibility. “I overheard them talking. I think they are using this marriage to gain an alliance with…my family. They talked about needing ships. And…and gaining allies.”

Theon sputtered out more of his memory, including the detail about the spy, while Ramsay soaked in the new information. Ramsay Snow knew his father aimed to become the Warden of the North, but he never suspected there was a plan in motion.

A plan he confided in with Domeric and not him.

A plan he conspired with his _trueborn heir_. _His real son_.

“—That’s why I’m trying to get to Winterfell as fast as I can. I need to warn the Starks. I need to—”

“—Bond with your sister,” Ramsay finished quietly.

Theon was startled by the ending. “What?”

“You are going to take a longer route. Tell your sister that you want to spend more time with her while she is here. Or don’t tell her. Say you got lost and took the wrong way. Either way, you need to prolong this journey.”

Theon felt his blood run cold. If Ramsay planned on joining his family on this ridiculous quest, Theon was going to…well he didn’t know _what_ he was going to do if Ramsay became a traitor. Would he follow him? “Ramsay, you can’t be suggesting—”

“I will go to Winterfell.”  

The look on his face said that Ramsay was elated by the turn of events. He grabbed Theon by the waist and pulled him close. Theon stayed silent for an explanation.

“This is my chance,” Ramsay told him. “ _I_ will head to Winterfell and _I_ will tell Robb what _I_ overheard my father and brother saying secreted conversations.” He stepped forward and led Theon back on the bed. Theon felt his skin heat up from the proximity. “And moved—so fucking moved—by my loyalty to the North, I raced all the way to Winterfell to warn them of this treachery. Even if it costs me my blood…both of whom happen to be the last remaining members of the Bolton family.” Ramsay kissed Theon’s hand. “Except, of course, those joined by marriage.”

Theon found it hard to breathe. Instead of backing up further so that he returned to the bed, he met the alpha head on and pressed against Ramsay’s chest. His heart was pounding with excitement. “And if my husband and good father proves treasonous and lose their heads…well, I’ll be left all alone at the Dreadfort.”  

“A horrible fate for such a pretty omega.”

“I would have to marry again. A loyalist. Someone the Starks know they can trust. That I can trust.”

“Preferably with Bolton blood.”

“That would be ideal,” Theon agreed. He felt the power surged through his veins. “Traditions are so important.”

Ramsay pulled his face into one last kiss. Theon sighed delightfully. It was a shame his sister would be here soon. He could not remember the last time he felt so delirious with deviousness. It made him wetter than a well.

***

Ramsay took an alternative route out of the inn. By the time Asha returned, no more than five minutes after, he and his group of degenerates were long gone. Theon grinned, smug and satisfied by how Ramsay outmaneuvered his sister. Asha caught the smirk at once. She suspected the worse when she first saw him—freshly wiped with his hair tussled out of place. Unable to control her temper, they had a horrible argument that night. Instead of leaving, however, Asha stayed in the room, perched on a chair with the maps she was barely glancing over. She was tired and uncomfortable and stubborn as a rock. They ignored each other the entire time—simmering in their own outrage.

Eventually, Theon remembered their plans. He needed to stall her party long enough for Ramsay to have a few days on him. If it remained like this the entire time…well, he simply could bear it!

With a groan, Theon cozied up to his sister with scratchy and a suitably warm blanket the inn provided. He tossed it on her shoulders.

Asha shrugged him off. “I don’t need it.”

Theon rolled his eyes. “You’ve complained about the weather every day you’ve been here. Take it.”  

“I’m not some spoiled brat. I’ve handled worse.”

Theon gritted his teeth. “I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“Because sea storms and shipwrecks are nothing compared to a northern breeze?”

“Damn it, Asha!” Was he this bad in their earlier fights? Nonsense. Theon was much more reasonable than this brattish behavior.

Theon swallowed up his bride. For the Dreadfort, he thought. For Ramsay.

“I’m sorry I met Ramsay without your permission. It’s just…it’s been a while since anyone paid me any attention. And...he was so kind and attentive and I liked that.”

Asha scoffed, though Theon could see her falter—just for a second. She poured herself a glass of liquor. “I thought the Starks were more of a family to you than ours ever were, and yet they didn’t pay you any mind?”  

Oh this again—“Lord Stark had six children to care for. He acknowledged me but…it was difficult. I was never his true son.” Theon thought of Lord Balon. “I was never father’s son, either.”

Asha paused. Just when Theon thought he would have to resort to tears, the girl turned to face him. “Don’t use my affection to manipulate me, you little cunt.”

Before Theon could defend himself, Asha continued. “But I understand,” she told him. “I know I wasn’t a good sister. There’s a reason you only wrote to mother and no one else. But you can’t keep pretending to be the fucking victim.”

“Asha—”

“I will try,” Asha promised. “I told you this. I am trying to be there for you. I am trying to make up for those years you’ve been gone. You need to try, too. Stop pulling these stunts, Theon. Stop throwing these tantrums. Stop running off with men like, like—fuck, like—”

“Ramsay is nothing like our father!” Theon was about to defend. Their father was a cold, pragmatic man who saw no use in his omega son except as a piece of silver for a rainy day and—

“—like our uncle,” Asha finished with more severity. “Do you remember Euron?”

Vaguely, Theon admitted to himself. He shook his head.  

Asha sighed. Theon could not tell if it was disappointment or relief. “Maybe if you did, you wouldn’t fall into these traps.”

Theon clenched his fist. “Maybe if I trusted you more, I would listen when you tell me they’re there.”   

A sparked of indignation became a flame of fury and Asha, who had seen lightning strike in front of her without flinching, almost flew out of her chair when Theon uttered those words.  

“They should have spanked you more as a child.”

“Well, I would have liked it!”

Well fuck, that wasn’t something she wanted to hear.

Theon must have recognized his own audacity, for he blushed and turned his heel.  

“I am going to bed,” Theon told her. His widened as if he had a brilliant idea. Asha wondered what foolish plan he came up with this time. “ _But_ —if you are so sure I will see the light, fine. Tomorrow, we will take the tarried route. Then you can sell me that sanctimonious shit our father shoveled from his ships!”

The high pitch of pride was enough to make Asha suspicious. Given how eager he was to go to Winterfell added to her reservations, but she was unable to think of a reason to refuse—besides her aversion to the country. Her brother was planning something—had been expecting something this entire trip. She would need the time to worm the truth out of him. 

Theon left the blanket on her but returned to bed with his back facing Asha. After feeling the stress of a strain back weigh on her, Asha was left with an odd choice. She refused to return to her room while Ramsay could still be lurking about. The only reasonable decision was to she grabbed the covers and joined her brother in bed. Despite his prissiness and protests, Theon ended up leaning against her form.

“Don’t steal the covers,” he warned.

Asha smiled.

Even when he sleeps, he was a brat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Thank you for reading this chapter. I'm really happy that I'm getting my writing groove back. :)  
> I was originally going to put Benjen in this chapter but I had already written over 10000 words and fuck it, I have other shit to write, so I’m saving it for the next chapter (plus a little more information on what happened at Winterfell because I can’t keep avoiding that for long).  
> But Benjen will be a little shit in the next chapter. Jaime is a repressed alpha and it shows. I’m not a hundred percent sure we’re getting Winterfell. Also, there’s a cliffhanger because shit will hit the fan soon.  
> This story will most likely be divided into four parts, not three as I originally planned. So the next series will follow the books and series four will be far into the future with Bran and Jojen. I am also getting into Harry Potter fandom (the new game is not as addicting as I hoped) and the Star Wars fandom. Domhnall Gleeson is pretty bae right now.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a highly Benjen-centric chapter in the beginning, and at the end, we return to Winterfell. Benjen, after his chapter, won’t hold as much weight (but he will in the third series because of -cough- reasons. I wish I could tell you but it spoil so much). Honestly, though, Joseph Mawle is gorgeous so I love writing Benjen. I had way too much fun writing him and Jaime together.

 

Benjen Stark was always their mother’s favorite.

It was not because she loved him more than any of her other children, but because Lyarra Stark knew that her youngest child would need her the most. Her observations began when Benjen was a child, old enough to watch his brothers train but too small to participate. It was innocent at first. She noticed how his eyes traced over a sword and continued up the wielder’s arm in appreciation. How his face would heat up whenever one of the guards’ ruffled his hair. He would watch his older brothers and their friends spar for hours, calling out ceaseless admirations for their form. His father chose ignorance; he would forever claim that his son’s destiny was as a warrior. Lyarra did not disagree, but she would not indulge in the lies like a coward. She would not let her son suffer alone as the world caved in on him. If she is to buried alive, then she will have her last breath saved for her children. So on the day, he picked up his first sword, she told him the truth.

“Benjen, you must heed all of Ser Cassel’s instruction, and do not slack off for a second. If I hear you have missed a step, or have fallen out of line, I will be very cross. And you will be punished.”

Benjen nodded. “Yes, mother.”

Lyarra stared into his eyes. Even though she was kneeling, she still had to look down. She wondered how she would feel the day he would tower over her. “It is important that you learn how to fight, and be strong. Stronger than anyone else. Do you know why?”

“Because I am a Stark, mother, and I must uphold our family’s honor.”

Lyarra smiled, but it was rueful and tight. “You are different, Benjen, from your brothers.” She cradled her little boy's face. “You don’t…you don’t see it now. But you will, and when you do, it will make your life more difficult. Your differences…” She pressed her forehead against his, and took a deep breath. “They will make it hard for people to accept you. That’s why you need strength. Strength to fight, and strength to value yourself when it feels like no one else will. I want you to remember that you have my heart, and no matter what anyone says you are worthy of love.” Lyarra kissed her son, and with the strength only a mother could possess, she held back her tears. She would set the example of strength and prayed for her son to emulate. He could not afford tears on his journey.

Years later, Benjen understood her grief. He could only thank the gods for their kindness when it was Ned who caught him sharing his first kiss with a farmer’s son—a young alpha who was erroneously led to believe that Benjen was just another gullible noble. Ned was calm when he dragged his brother from the barn, and he was calm when threatening castration if there was so much as a whisper uttered outside those walls.

When they arrived home, Ned visited Benjen in his bedroom with a resigned sense of duty. They sat on Benjen’s bed, and like their mother before him, Ned gave him a warning. And though Benjen was his mother’s favorite, it was Ned that was her son.

“What were you thinking?” Ned asked him.

Benjen, who was still a child growing into his own body, looked away. He tried to hide his tears. “I didn’t know you were coming back from the Vale today. I would have never…”

“You were lucky that I came home early,” Ned reminded him. The severity never wavered in his tone. “What if I was father? Or Brandon? Or simply another member from our keep?” Ned took a deep breath. “You are too young to be taking these kinds of risks.”

Benjen did not answer.

“You must be discreet from now on.”   

The suggestion startled Benjen, who turned to his brother with wide eyes. “Ned?”

“Don’t…” Ned coughed. “There are plenty of alphas who share your _inclinations_. If you must satisfy your urges…Find people who have something to gain from the silence. Alphas who have taken vows...” Ned winced; Benjen wondered if it physically pained him to say so. “Marriage, or a brotherhood.”

“…Like the Night Watch?” Benjen suggested quietly, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. It had always been a dream of his to take the black.

Ned sighed. “Yes.”

The conversation ended on that note, with Ned offering an awkward pat on the shoulder that morphed into a subtle squeeze of comfort. “You are my little brother. I am sworn to protect you.”

Benjen closed his eyes. He tried to will his tears away, but barely a boy of ten, it was an impossible feat. “Even if it means going against Brandon? Or father?”

Ned grimaced. “Be wise, and that day will never come.” But the way Ned grasped his hand answered his question, and Benjen allowed himself to dream of the day he would no longer have to hide anymore. But dreams were the currency of fools, and that was what Benjen was when he decided to rely on such volatility.  

Brandon, in contrast, was not a man of reason—he had no mind for logic, no patience for forethought. Though he had no hatred in his heart for the so-called “degenerates,” he was admittingly influenced by his southern travels. This, along with their already distant ages, made it difficult for any common interest to occur between the eldest and youngest Starks. Lyanna and Ned often took turns playing mediator and buffer, keeping them apart when tensions ran high and patching up wounds when they came to blows.

It was during one of their fight—a vague issue that no Stark could even recall—where Brandon had tripped the stallion once and for all. After Benjen had resorted to calling Brandon a whore for southern delights, one who would bend the knee for a knighthood, Brandon responded in kind.

“You should learn to bite your tongue,” Brandon mocked. “Once you wed a southern whore of your own.”

The campsite fell silent.

Benjen was the first to respond. “I will never marry,” he snarled.

Brandon chuckled. “Do you think you have a choice?” A sneer covered his handsome face. “Father intends to have ties to every single great house in this kingdom. Lyanna and I have our engagements, Ned has been fostered in the Vale, and it will only be a matter of time before you will be asked to take a bride.”

Lyanna turned red. She placed a protective arm around her younger brother’s shoulder. “Shut up, Brandon. You’ve been drinking. Father wouldn’t do that to him.”

“Why?” Brandon asked, his mouth foaming with anger. “Why is he special? Because of his age? Because mother cared about him more than us? Why would he honor her wishes now?” He glared at Benjen. “Once you give your vows in the sept, we will see who will be bending the knee.”

Benjen was never one for temper tantrums—always so well mannered, perceptive enough to make his retorts cutthroat without raising his voice. It was this trait that riled Brandon the most. He didn’t need to grab a sword to stab a man. He knew what to say to lay a siege.

“If I am bending anything,” Benjen hissed. “It is my back for your friends. Perhaps if I loan it out enough, father will be able to afford to pay my dowry.”

Brandon tightened his fist. “Do not jest about such matters.”

“Who is jesting?” Benjen mocked. Ned moved closer to Brandon while Lyanna pulled at her little brother’s arm. He could hear whispering, _begging_ for him to stay silent. “I can start a business at your wedding. You won’t care for the south, then. When half your groomsmen are between my thighs.”

The insinuation was enough for Brandon to lunge out of his seat and strike Benjen across the face.

“Brandon!” Lyanna shouted. Ned acted as quickly as he could, but he was too late to hold his brother back. Benjen’s face was burning from the hit. There would be a mark for days.

“Take it back!” Brandon shouted.

Benjen stared at him. Eyes defiant and posture stiff and lip tight. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it? Bleeds like a hymen and dirties up your clean linen." Benjen remembers a Night Watch boy whispering something like that in his ear. He felt absolutely filthy listening. "Your little brother is a deviant. He is a _degenerate_ and like father, you ignored it like a fool.”  

Ned struggled to trap his brother, but Brandon was bigger and stronger and had a temper that could break steel. Eventually, he broke free from his restraints.

Benjen waited for the second blow but it never came. Instead, he watched in horror as it was Lyanna who slumped against his body. Brandon’s rampage stopped then; watching his sister shield their younger brother brought everything to a standstill.

“Lyanna!” Ned yelled. He moved towards them in a panic, but Lyanna was quick to recover.

“I am fine,” she assured. She rubbed his face to soothe the wound. “I am fine,” she repeated for emphasis. She turned to Brandon, and angrily told him, “You cannot behave like this! He is our brother!” 

Shame flashed through his eyes before settling onto justified fury. “This will ruin him. If father finds out—!”

Benjen scoffed. “I could kiss a toad for what father thinks—”

“Benjen!” Ned snapped.

Benjen  settled down from his older brother’s reprimand. Ned turned to Brandon. “Father will not discover this,” he told him, a warning if anything. “Benjen will take The Black. He will never marry. It is not an issue to be discussed, here or otherwise.”

Brandon’s eyes bulged. “You would permit him to take the black? Are you mad?”

“He wants to protect the realm.”

“Because he’s a fucking child who doesn’t understand a thing!” Brandon accused. “What about his safety? Being amongst rapists and murderers who will no doubt take pleasure in teaching a noble boy a lesson?” Brandon shouted. “He will not go! I will not allow it.”

Benjen’s throat tightened. Lyanna, his older sister and everlasting supporter, spoke for him. “Brandon, you cannot control him.” There was an edge of bitterness to her voice that was only picked up upon in retrospect.

“I will not send my brother off to become a bitch for feral dogs.” He asked her. Lyanna was taken back by his tone, for no matter how crude he was, he had never spoken so cruelly to her.

Brandon walked off then; Lyanna stayed by Benjen’s side but it was Ned who chased Brandon down. Hours later, they came back to the campsite with bruises, and though it was likely Ned had lost, it was clear he tried. 

Brandon never said anything to their father, but he stopped saying anything to Benjen altogether.

Benjen supposed this was the root of his devotion to Ned. Why he was willing to sacrifice so much for his older brother. When Ned met Howland, Benjen remembered feeling relieved. Because now Ned wouldn’t be alone; he would finally have someone to love him the way he deserved, someone who was worthy of being with his brother. Benjen vowed to keep them together, to make this beautiful omega smile because he knew that was the only way to keep Ned happy. To protect Howland from alphas who would otherwise undermind Ned's hold. Overtime, Benjen grew to love Howland as he loved his brother and his sister. To him, Howland was just as much as a Stark as either of them.

***

In contrast, Benjen hated the city. He hated the smell of fish heads swimming in sewage; he hated the sounds of bards decomposing shit in the air. He preferred the crisp winds of the north and the tinkering bells of the Neck. King’s Landing was a den of roaches disguised as a capital and Benjen wanted to leave as soon as he stepped in.

But as a Stark, Benjen was never one to abandon duty. He powered through the foulness and reached the entrance with a grimace. The guards stared at him uninterestedly.

Benjen handed them a scroll and announced himself as Benjen Stark. “I am here to see the king about an urgent matter regarding my brother. Lord Stark of House Winterfell.”

The name was instantly recognized. There was not a soul in the kingdom who was not aware of the Baratheon-Stark’s legendary friendship, often told in ballads and written down in every history book from now until the end of time. Benjen’s name was harder to recognize, but neither was willing to ignore such a claim in case they were ignorant.

One of the guards took his scroll and frowned.

“You said you are Benjen Stark?”

“Correct,” Benjen answered smoothly.

“The sigil on the scroll belongs to House Reed."

With a raised eyebrow, he asked if the guards were so devoted to their post that they turned a deaf ear towards gossip. “Lord Reed is my wife,” he explained. “I am here on his and my brother’s behalf.”

The two men bristled at his dismissive tone. “Your omega does not take your name?”

“There is already one Lord Stark. I do not see the point in having two.”

The two of their lips twitched. Neither men were highborn and seemed to take great pleasure in taking the piss out of this notorious cuckold. “And so you do your wife’s bidding while your brother keeps him company? I see, Lord _Benjen_.”  

Benjen gave a wry smile. Try as they might, he was not offended by such remarks. Not when he knew the alternative would be far worst for the people he adored. “I am glad you are amused; I will be sure to remember these comments when I speak to my brother. He and the king enjoy a good laugh.”

They were silenced at once. They were about to let him in when Benjen spotted a familiar figure heading to the entrance. His hair reflected off the sun, and the melted gold emboldened his handsome features. When he was a child, he remembered thinking that the man was a lover of the sun—for what god would not want to bed such beauty.

Benjen was an adult now, and he was no longer infatuated with beautiful men or their long swords. It took two dead children and a fallen king for him to learn that the Lannisters were the bane of the realm.

“Ser Jaime,” Benjen addressed.

The man stopped in his tracks. He had made it to the entrance without a passing glance to the street dwellers.

A true Lannister, Benjen thought.

When Jaime Lannister set his eyes upon Ned Stark’s brother, he was taken back. Benjen found the look amusing that a man whose father was Tywin Lannister could be startled by anything, least of all an unassuming alpha.

“It has been awhile,” Benjen noted. “Pyke?” 

Jaime moved forward; his expression was unreadable. He looked at Benjen with a degree of familiarity and, dare Benjen to assume, _want_. There was definite fear as well; Benjen had seen enough scared men to recognize the feeling, and Benjen understood. The Stark was long past being afraid of who he was but clearly, this was not a man ready to see his past resurface in his present.

“Pyke,” Jaime agreed at last.

Benjen gave him another once over before walking ahead. The guards in front did not stop him, though they were watching with mild interest in their interaction. There was always going to be heat between the Lannisters and the Starks, but Benjen Stark was a relatively unknown party.

Except to Jaime Lannister.

Jaime caught up with him, desperate to leave the dark. “What are you doing here, Lord Benjen?” Benjen knew an accusation when he heard one. 

“I am here to see the king. Worry not, the matter does not concern you.”

The vagueness only infuriated him more. They soon entered the keep. Not at all unsettled by the raging company by his side, Benjen continued without stopping. “If you plan to follow me, then make yourself useful. Tell me where I can find the king. Or at least his Hand. Better yet—” Benjen turned to the Lannister. “Find me a knight who won’t slaughter them before I have my chance for a plea. I heard Ser Barristan is still Commander. I always found him to be handsome.”  

It was more impatience than jealousy that caused Jaime to force him against the wall, right next to the windows overlooking the gardens. Benjen tried to hide his smirk but his eyes were still twinkling with laughter.

Jaime frowned. “You are mocking me.”

Benjen looked him in the eye. “I am,” Benjen admitted. He pressed his hands appreciatively against the Lannister’s armor and admired the solid wall of muscle. Age had only hardened his figure; years ago, there were only a handful of men who could best the famed knight in a duel. He supposed the number was a mere pinch now. “You are truly the most handsome man in the kingdom.” The complimented sounded like a complaint. Benjen loathed how attracted he was to the Kingslayer, which only spurred his taunting. Ned would be so disappointed if he ever found out about their dalliance, and Benjen hated Jaime more for the betrayal. For being so tempting that he would sacrifice his brother’s trust for a taste of his cock.

Jaime was silent; at a lost. He was good at putting men in their place, but a man like Benjen Stark was an anomaly in more ways than one. Benejn was shameless but proud, a man of honor yet so quick to deceive. Whenever the younger man uttered the word “kingslayer,” Jaime found his fist clenching to keep from strangling him. At the same time, he wanted to kiss him senselessly for the praises.  

Jaime’s tried to fight the urge to do either. It was what he was used to, fighting. He was born a warrior, to a point where some people said he was the Warrior’s earth incarnate. Death was not his enemy to fear. The only ways he felt alive was in battle or bed, and it sickened Jaime to know that the answer to both was in front of him. Benjen was a warrior; Benjen had a tight ass and the mouth of a whore. Jaime considered killing him for that—killing him for having the half that his sister did not. Whenever he looked at Benjen, it was a betrayal. Because whenever he looked at Benjen, he felt desire he had never felt for any other creature but his sister. To reason with himself, he glanced outside where he saw his sister lounging with Myrcella.  

“She is beautiful,” Benjen commented softly. Jaime found his anger dissipating at the sight of her. I love her, Jaime thought to himself. No one else could ever compare, not some northern mistake.

“I wonder how she would react if she knew about me.”  

Benjen was as ready for the next attack as he wasn’t for Brandon’s fist. No one could ever claim he didn’t learn from his mistakes. Benjen moved his head out of the way in time for Jaime to punch the brick wall. Benjen tried to keep his blood from pumping south when he saw the dent.

The frustration in Jaime’s cat-green eyes soon dissipated into something fearsome and real, and Benjen desperately wanted to lick the bloody fist clean.

“One more word…” Jaime began to threaten. Benjen stopped him before he had the chance, subsequently claiming dominance in their conversation. Jaime’s control was slipping and falling straight into Benjen’s arms. It was a lesson he learned from his wife, in fact.

“If you think you can threaten me, I will remind you: I don’t keep secrets from my wife,” Benjen said, choked but composed. A frightening sight. “He knows how good I am with the sword, and if he finds my body floating in the sewage, he might wonder who in King’s Landing has the skills and motives to end my life.” Benjen leaned in close again, bolder than ever. Jaime does not protest when Benjen unsheathed Jaime's gloved hands and sucked two fingers into his mouth. While Benjen’s blood may be cold, his mouth was hot and moist. He closed his teeth around them and kept his gaze locked on Jaime’s.

A warning, Jaime recognized.

“And if your brother finds out?” Jaime tried instead. “How will he feel when he learns his little brother has been spreading his legs for an oathbreaker?”

Ned would be disappointed, but he would forgive Benjen for his transgressions. It would take time for them to move past this ordeal, however. Benjen would not be able to survive if Ned treated him as Brandon had—like a stranger in the shell of his brother.  

But Jaime did not know that.

“What can he do?” Benjen asked. “Send me to the Night’s Watch? Or tell me to be more careful like he did when I was a boy?” To Jaime, the smugness on his face was more frustrating than his words.  

 “They won’t believe you,” Jaime snarled, trying to keep his breath steady as Benjen slowly swallowed the fingers further down his throat. They were still out in the open. Any moment, a guard or a maid could walk in on them.

Benjen made a humming noise. He released the fingers with a ‘pop.’ “They will once I start recounting the memory. How hard you were pounding into me, the way you grunted when you pushed all the way inside me. Ugh, ugh, fuck…yes… _fucking hells_.” Benjen’s impression of Jaime resurfaced the memory like a corpse thrown into the sea. Even with his sister’s presence a mere glance away, the lion could no longer resist the temptation. He pulled Benjen to an empty room and threw him against the nearest surface. Before Benjen could get up, Jaime gripped his throat with both hands. If he were a weaker man, Benjen’s life would have ended there. But Jaime wouldn’t have been pushed to the edge if he was. Benjen fought back with every ounce of his strength. There were few men in the kingdom who could beat Jaime Lannister in a fear fight but fuck him, if Benjen wouldn’t at least try. He used the knife hidden in his sleeve to stab the man’s hand—the only open source of flesh he could find with the armor on. More from shock than pain, Jaime stopped. Benjen used the opportunity to kick at his legs until the man tumbled off him. Jaime hit the ground, shoulder first. Before he could get up, Benjen straddled him. He threw in a few easy punches for his amusement, loving how hot the man got underneath him. Benjen was no fool; he knew he was outmatched and was proven thusly when Jaime unceremoniously flipped him over with ease.

Benjen’s head hit the floor with a thud that could have turned into a crack if he was inclined. Before Jaime could return the favor, Benjen opened his mouth. “If you wanted me on my back, you could have asked.”

Benjen was spending far too much time with his wife.

Jaime was startled by his statement. He was about to respond when Benjen relaxed against the floor and lifted his knee up—not to break free, but to bring attention to Jaime’s hardened cock.

“You are not a man, Lannister. You are a beast. That’s all left of a man who breaks a vow.”

“Fuck you.”  

Please. “My mother used to say: ‘Vows are rules we impose on ourselves. If we cannot follow the laws of our own creation, then we are no better than the beasts ruled by instinct.’” Benjen chuckled. “Beasts know only how to fight or fuck. You’ve already fought me, so what else is there to do?” 

Jaime knew the answer.

Benjen grunted when Jaime pulled down his trousers. The man was not gentle nor kind, but he was eager. The knight push Benjen’s legs apart to get a look at his already leaking hole—Benjen heeded his wife’s advice and prepared himself well. He wasn’t exactly expecting to meet Jaime so soon, but there were plenty of alphas in King’s Landing that had the potential to catch his eye and power to satisfy Howland’s whims.

The severe expression on the knight’s face urged Benjen to laugh, but he held his tongue out of common sense.

“You can get rough,” Benjen permitted. “I don’t mind.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. He pressed his fingers into Benjen’s hips and growled, “I wasn’t planning on being kind.”

Benjen licked his lips. His retailiation died in his throat when he saw Jaime spit in his hands. He covered his dick in saliva. He wanted Benjen sore as a swatted bottom but far away from agony—he was not going to allow the wishful bitch a chance to mock his prowess. When he was deemed wet enough, Jaim pushed the head of his cock inside. Benjen released a choked scream. The Stark turned to the side to avoid meeting the Lannister’s gaze, but Jaime caught the loss of the breath, the widened eyes, and the panted mouth.

Benjen knew he would feel the stretch for days. The Lannister did not lie for once. He was gentle as a starving lion, and though he tried clenching around the width, he found it hard to do anything but take it when Jaime began to thrust with abandon.

“Thought you liked it rough,” Jaime muttered. “Thought you wanted a fat alpha’s cock inside your tight ass. Turning you into a proper bitch.”

Benjen grunted. “Stop thinking so much. You’re not good at it.”

His words were a sore spot for the warrior, for the older man started fucking harder.

Benjen moaned despite himself. “Gods, that’s good…”

Jaime grip on him tightened until he was convinced there would be bruises the next day. Benjen enjoyed the pain; he loved how stretched he felt after getting a big cock up his eyes and how ruined his hole looked when someone shot their load. Benjen started to melt underneath the brutal manhandling.

His impeding orgasm was helped along by Jaime’s angle, which was disgustingly accurate. Benjen could feel him stabbing his prostate—another benefit Benjen found to being on the bottom. Sometimes, he wondered why alphas used their cocks at all when it felt so good taking one. He supposed he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, not when his Lannister lover was doing so well to ride him to the brink.    

Jaime was doing all the work, no doubt an attempt to prove his worth. Benjen refused to let him have all the fun and spread his legs further apart. He willed himself squeeze onto the cock, and swelled up in pride when Jaime’s breath began to come up short.

“Is this what you want, you filthy whore?” Jaime grunted out. “You like pretending to be a bitch to get bred by some alpha’s knot?” 

Benjen moaned but didn’t answer. He wanted the Kingslayer to work harder, to really pound into him.

“You’re gripping me tighter than a sheath,” Jaime declared. “You must really want my load. Want to be bred. Want me to replace your hole as my bucket.”

Oh, the filth that poured out this man’s mouth was godly. Benjen knew a repressed soul when he saw one.

“Fuck me,” Benjen ordered. “Fuck me like an alpha should. Fuck me like you’ve never fucked anyone before.” Alphas loved it when said this; most of the ones he bedded often spent ages away from an omega’s cunt, desperate to release months of pent-up loads in a single session. The others were those so disgusted with themselves that they unleashed all their anger onto Benjen’s ass. They loved bruising his insides in a way they couldn’t with their own wives. Jaime overlapped both categories, which made their trysts far more fun in Benjen’s experience.

Eventually, they get to the point of mindless fucking that whitens Benjen’s vision. Jaime goes in hard, grunting as he shook the floor with his rutting. They became so shamelessly that Benjen allowed himself some reprieve and let loose a string of wanton cries and whimpers.

“Fuck!” He heard Jaime yell. A few more thrusts and his dick is pulsing in Benjen’s hole, releasing a huge load of fertile, alpha cum that could easily impregnate an entire army. Benjen slumped on the ground while his hole lifelessly swallowed more of his essence. He could hear Jaime demanding he ‘take it’ in his hear, panting like a heated animal.  

Benjen closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation. He was tired but sated. His first notch was marked less than an hour after arriving in King’s Landing, and though there was a long way to go, Benjen felt he made tremendous progress. There was plenty he could do with Jaime Lannister.

***

“I need a guide around the castle—a private one.”

Jaime paused. He had just managed to straighten up his armor when Benjen made the demand.  

“I thought you wanted to speak to the king?” He asked, his suspicions suddenly rising to new peaks.

“I intend to speak to the Hand before the night is through,” Benjen replied. He turned to Jaime. The knight could see the wrinkles on his cloak. Benjen was never one for fuss and his appearance remained disheveled as ever. It suited the northerner, but it also added a promiscuous air to the enigma. No one knew much about Benjen Stark, except that he was married to his brother’s mistress. A scandal that he somehow wore with pride. “But the tour is a personal request. One I would like to keep between us. Think of it as returning a favor.”

Jaime scoffed. “And whose favor did I borrow? I seem to recall you moaning for my cock.”  

Benjen remained unfazed. Again, he was amused. “I could always moan for your cock in the queen’s bedroom. She wouldn’t like that, would she?”  

Jaime looked ready to kill again.

Benjen walked past him to the door. “Tomorrow, I want to see all the starts and finishes, the ins and outs of the Red Keep. Tell no one.” Benjen let out a breath of laughter. “Not that you could.”

“What purpose will this serve you? Are you planning a siege?” Jaime asked, half in jest and the other half serious. He was a trained commander; he knew better than to let a potential enemy gain access to his home. Nonetheless, his eye twitched at the last statement, for Benjen knew that his only ally in King’s Landing were his siblings, and there was no way for him to explain without telling them about his affair.

Benjen shrugged to display his nonchalance. “If you do not show me, then I will find someone who will. There are plenty of knights here who would gladly take a chance to be _acquainted_.”

“Acquainted,” Jaime repeated. He followed Benjen to the entrance until his chest was pressed against his back. He bent his head to place his breath over Benjen’s neck. Jaime was only an inch or two taller, yet he tried his hardest to emphasize their difference. Benjen found the action terribly endearing. He was used to bending over for all sorts of men but he was not a small alpha by any means—being a Stark meant he was naturally imposing, but he did like a show of dominance. “And what do you intend to do once you’re acquainted?”  

“Did I not advise you against thinking?” Benjen turned around so that their lips were almost touching. “I am going to find the Hand and have him arrange me a room. Tomorrow, I expect you to find that room and do as I request. Without question.”

“You do not give me orders,” Jaime growled.

“And I do not have to give you answers, either,” Benjen retorted. Without warning, he grabbed the back of the lion knight’s head and pulled him into a rough kiss. Jaime kissed back on instinct. When they parted, he was breathing like he finished a battle. “Do you think you’re the first alpha who’s fucked me?” Benjen chuckled. “Or just the the best? Not even close, Kingslayer.” Benjen pushed him away. Jaime fell back. “Once I am done speaking with Hand, he will take any excuse to prolong our next meeting. I trust…” Benjen pushed a strand of golden hair behind Jaime’s ear. Jaime shivered from the affection. “…we will have splendid time going through all your secret passageways.”

Jaime clenched his fist. He hated how hard it was to defy Benjen, how heavy the shield was to defend himself against the man. The Stark was different from the southern nobles he was used to; he didn’t use manipulation, he merely told him the truth with the callousness of blacksmith’s hands. “And what if I cannot excuse myself?” Jaime admitted at last. “The king…he likes to keep me around. Enjoys humiliating me.”  

Benjen stared at him. “I believe in you,” he said, and though the words were spoken with a grain of salt, it was more faith than anyone had given Jaime in a long time.

***

Sometime later, Benjen found himself waiting in the Tower of the Hand. They day would be dark soon. He arrived unannounced, so he did not complain about the delay. Nonetheless, he was relieved to hear the guards informing the incoming figure of his presence.

The door opened with little finesse. Benjen did not turn around when he heard the Hand enter. Instead, he waited until Lord Arryn was seated to speak. 

“Lord Arryn,” Benjen addressed.

“Lord Benjen.” Despite his old age, Jon Arryn’s mind remained sharp. He narrowed his eyes at the much younger man. “You look well,” he said evenly.

“You look alive.” Benjen drank the water he took the liberty of pouring for himself. “Are we finished? I have no desire to prolong my stay with niceties.”

“To the point. You’re like your brother. He didn’t like games, either.” There was a wistfulness about his comment that Benjen found unnerving.  

“I do enjoy a spar if the opponent is right,” Benjen denied, remembering his earlier tryst. Benjen took out the scroll he had given the guards. Lord Arryn glanced at the parchment on the table, noted the official sigil of House Reed, and sighed.

“This is about the legitimacy decree.”

“There is little else it could be,” Benjen agreed. “You and I both know the King will never meet me. He wants you to advise against it.”

Lord Arryn paused. He stared at Benjen for a second, admiring how much older the young boy was and suddenly felt his age. “Lord Benjen, are you so buried under your wife’s thumb that you would be this blatant with your brother’s betrayal? You are better than this. One would think you bewitched.”

Benjen snorted at the suggestion. “I try to keep my wife happy—but only on my brother’s account.” He made himself comfortable, never one for posturing. He has long broken out of his father’s habits. “Personally, I don’t give a shit if the decree passes. Jon’s my blood, no matter whose name you’ve slapped onto his bottom. But if the king does this…well, that won’t end well for anyone.” Benjen looked him straight in the eye. “Least of all the king.”

Lord Arryn stood up straighter. “Is that a threat, Lord Benjen?”

“Yes,” Benjen answered. “Because my wife has never carried any love for this kingdom, and he will sooner see it burn than lose Ned, or his son.”

“I am not afraid of Lord Reed.”

“Yes, you are.” Benjen looked away as if he remembering a shared joke. “Everyone is, whether they’re willing to admit it or not.”

“Are you?”

“Only a fool wouldn’t be.” Benjen shrugged. “All it takes is a single word and he will burn down keeps and skin a dragon alive. Be smart, Lord Arryn. Howland Reed knows where the bodies are buried, and he has no qualms on sending me to dig up skeletons.” Benjen thinks of the collection of men he’s fucked, all their secrets being released alongside their cum. Boys from good families who’ve joined the Night’s Watch; married lords who would have paid fortunes to use a man—a real man, not some breakable boy in a brothel. All of them gave plenty to Benjen, and by association—Howland. “And that’s the past speaking. The future holds many new plans, ones that fall into Howland’s palms.” Benjen finished off his water. “I didn’t come empty-handed, Lord Arryn.”

“Lord Benjen, I do not respond to threats.”

Benjen spoke regardless. “Deny my brother’s request, or I will tell your wife about your intentions to foster your son.”     

Jon tensed. He wondered how that news could have spread—only he and Lord Stannis knew of his plans, and the Baratheon was too suspicious to slit it slip. He might have told his husband, but, though it pained Lord Arryn to admit, the smuggler was clever—he knew how to spot a traitor. Jon loathed to think of the number of spies the witch employed to gain privy to that information.  

“I have no idea of what you speak.”

Benjen called his bluff. “Then I will tell her regardless,” Benjen said. “She is rather ill if I recall. I doubt she will get far if she tries to return to the Vale so her best option is to confront you. That won’t end well for you.”

Benjen made a motion to leave, but Jon stopped him.  

“Your brother would be ashamed if he knew what you were doing,” Jon declared, forceful but still a plea.

The appeal towards decency would have been effective if he were Brandon. But Benjen was used to doing what had to be done for his brother’s good rather than his feelings. He married Howland against Ned’s wishes, because Ned needed a tie to his lover. He let Ned take Jon because it was the most selfish act he had ever committed, but he was not going to let him ruin his family through this act. Sometimes, Ned was his own worst enemy.

“Do you say the same thing when you speak to your king?” Benjen countered. “Whenever he spends a thousand dragons on a tourney? Or when he fucks an omega that isn’t his wife?”

The man glared. The weight of his failures were daunting, and he suddenly felt more trapped than he ever had before, not even at his own wedding was he so caged.

Benjen stood up. “I made my proposition. You can tell me your answer tomorrow.” He walked out that moment.

***

While thinking of their conversation, Benjen’s eyes caught the ends of a white cloak making a turn in the corridor. Curiosity bit at Benjen and he tried not to arise any hopes. If that cloak belonged to who he thought it did, he was certain his fun would not end tonight. He followed the man’s path, each turn missing him by the end of his cloak.

Eventually, the unseen knight walked into a room. Benjen prepared his sword and followed. The golden haired figure had his back turn, but Benjen knew that would not stay that way for long. Benjen pressed his sword against the man’s neck, and as soon as the cold steel hit the figure, the man became still.

“You could poke an eye out if you had the skill.”

Benjen only needed to pause for Jaime Lannister to turn around and unarm him. His sword was still falling when the knight forced him against the door. Benjen could feel the man’s body heat through his armor.

“Unfortunately, stabbing men from the back is not a skill I’ve acquired,” Benjen breathed out.

“No, you prefer getting stabbed from the back.”

Benjen had to chuckle. “I’ve heard that one before.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Jaime retorted, and there was a twitch in his cock that made Benjen realized he liked it.

“That was clever,” Benjen praised. “I’m rather proud of you.” To his surprise, Jaime’s eyes seemed to light up at the mocking. It made Benjen frown—how desperate was he for sweetness that he would take scraps of sugar from a Stark? Testing his theory, Benjen touched his cheek with the lightness of a bird’s flight. It was a move he perfected on the men of the Night’s Watch. He learned a long time ago, that the smallest affection worked better than the heaviest chains in gaining obedience.

Jaime closed his eyes and sunk into the touch. Benjen found his breath growing short. “Were you waiting for me?” Benjen asked softly.

Jaime tensed. “I stumbled into the hall. You were in there for a while.”

“Did you believe I was up to something sordid? Did you think I was fucking him?” Benjen teased.

“I didn’t think you were fucking him,” Jaime swore, a little too forcefully. His eyes opened as he glared, bitterly. “But I wouldn’t put it past your _skills_ to convince him.”

“Because you were so hard to convince.” Benjen chuckled. “Not every man is like us. Some men aren’t standing on the ledge waiting to be pushed; most need to have walked up the cliffs themselves.”   
Jaime’s pulled away at once. Benjen’s head hit against the wooden door; he cursed. “I am _not_ like you,” Jaime growled.

Benjen agreed. “No, I’m not an oathbreaker.”

Jaime glared at him but didn’t respond. All that self-loathing made Benjen want to grab the man and force him into a pile of sheets until he would give himself a rest. Jaime made an attempt to walk to the knob, but Benjen stopped him with a single question.

“Were you jealous?”

Jaime stopped in his tracks. “What?”

“When I took my time with the Hand, were you jealous?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jaime denied.

“That’s not a ‘no’.” Benjen was more amused than ever. “Kingslayer, I know my own kind. You’re not built to lord over lands; you are meant to lead armies. I know; I saw it at Pyke. Watching you command those men into formation, build your battle plans…I saw that and thought ‘I will fuck this man.’”

Jaime’s lips were twitching despite his better effort. He tried to think of sister, her face morphing into a wendigo if she found out about the affair, but nothing worked. He moved closer.

“Is that all you want from me?” Jaime asked. “A bedwarmer?”

“I’ll return the favor,” Benjen assured.  

Jaime grabbed Benjen from the back of his head and pulled him into a rough, unapologetic kiss. They only parted when he ran out of breath.

“This will be quick,” Jaime said breathlessly. He tried to keep his breath steady; professional as his brother once taught him. “This will be clean. And after we are done, I will leave like nothing happen.”

Benjen laughed—a full-hearted, joyous laugh. He surprised Jaime by forcing into another kiss, one that was every bit as rough but deeper, more tongue, and filthy as tavern. Jaime couldn’t remember the last time he had a kiss like that.

“It will be slow.” Benjen bit Jaime’s lower lip and dragged it closer. “It will be messy. And after the first round, we’ll keep going until you are spent inside me.”

***

The key to a happy marriage was common interests. Howland Reed found that being married to a slut while he was one resulted in the most harmonious union. Howland remembered their meeting with the lucidity of newly minted maester. Benjen was the second Stark to have made Howland’s acquaintance, following Lyanna’s triumphant rescue of his honor. Howland enjoyed his presence immediately. The Stark was the rare sort of alpha who did not see Howland as prey; if anything, he saw him as a fellow predator. Howland spent that afternoon having a grand old time with his liege lord’s children; they played card games and stole Brandon’s ale resulting in Howland toppling over Benjen’s lap and clothes being stripped off in mock fighting. He thought their company to be the pinnacle of enjoyment until their brothers walked in, alongside Robert Baratheon and a few other members from their group of companions—all alpha, for teenagers were encouraged to develop pack bonds at this age.

Howland recalled little from that day—his lack of tolerance towards spirits was even worse in his youth—but he will never forget the moment his stomach fluttered like the flapping winds of a moth upon seeing Ned’s face for the first time. He was never one for shame, but Howland became almost frantic in an attempt to groom himself.

“What is going on here?” Brandon asked, embarrassed that his friends were to see such a scene. The boys behind them were staring, eager to get an eyeful. Brandon angrily ordered them to leave the tent, though Robert Baratheon was harder to command. The storm lord eventually left, leaving the two eldest Stark boys to commandeer their younger siblings and guest.

Lyanna was the first to speak. She was clearly inebriated but worked her hardest to pretend otherwise. Sober or not, Howland found the incident terribly amusing. “ _Brandon_. What…what are you doing here? I…” She made a hiccup and then giggled furiously at the sound. Benjen barked out a laugh, and Howland stifled his own amusement with Benjen’s shoulder. “I thought you were…” She laughed like she heard the funniest joke. “tra…training.”

“I was,” Brandon growled. “Where did you get the alcohol? Who is this?” He sent an accusatory glare at Howland.

“What alcohol?” Benjen asked, the soberest of the three. His goblet was fuller than the rest—indicating that he was a common victor in their game.  Though intoxication was mild, it was still present. His cheeks flushed, and his shirt was falling off his shoulder like some newly bedded wife. “Oh, this? We thought it was water.”

Brandon glared at them.

Howland got up to introduce himself, but he stumbled with the wobbly grace of a three-legged gazelle. He found himself falling to the ground, until a pair of arms helped stable him.

“I’ve got you,” he heard someone say. When he looked up to see the arms attached to his savior, his breath caught. Howland flushed—embarrassed, and he was never embarrassed, not for anything in his entire life. He had a sort of confidence that made people shiver; his people used to claim that there was something in his eyes that gave off the impression he could read minds. He used to joke that he could—scaring his fellow peers into hapless obedience until his father put a stop to his pranks.

“I…” Howland’s words died on his throat. Ned shared what was known to be the ‘Stark look’, with stormy grey eyes and a lengthy face, though his appearance was the most solemn of his siblings. He had growing stubble that aged him well; Howland wanted to rub against it like cat.

“Ned, this is Howland of House Reed. His father is one of our bannermen,” Lyanna explained, still giddy though her good mood was threatened by her brothers.

“I know who our bannermen are,” Brandon snapped. “What is he doing here?”

Ned cradled the boy in his arms; Howland could feel the alcohol wearing off but he wasn’t ready to let go of this muscled form anytime soon. He dug his face into the middle Stark’s neck, pressing his lips against the young man’s sweaty skin. Howland fought not to lick him. He lost. The tip of Howland’s tongue flicked against his neck. He moaned from the musk; a true alpha in every way, his sweat tasted like salt and earth.   

Ned growled. “Lyanna, what is the meaning of this?” The Stark was a protector by nature; he held onto Howland to keep him from falling. Against his willpower, his cock started to harden when Howland took advantage of their proximity and lapped at his neck.

Shaking her head and guaranteeing a hangover at dinner, she answered. “He was attacked by the most…” Lyanna swallowed. She reached for some more ale, which Benjen aptly switched out for a glass of water. “ _Horrible_ alphas. Squires, no less. No shame! I saved him, but they were horrible! Horrible.” She repeated the words over and over until she came to her point. “I invited him here to avoid harassment. Horrible, isn’t it? Can we keep him? From those horrible, horrible men?”

Brandon seemed exasperated, as he tended to be when his sister made plans on her own. He liked the implication of Lyanna’s independent rescue even less. “He isn’t a dog, Lyanna.”

“He is a crannogman,” Ned observed. “He must have traveled alone.”

Brandon knew what was coming next. His honorable brother would never—  

“We cannot allow an omega to travel unprotected, least of all our bannermen,” Ned reasoned.

There it was. He watched Ned take off his cloak and dressed Howland’s shoulders. “Rest assured, Lord Howland, you will be under Stark protection for the duration of your stay.”

“Ned, that is not something you can promise—”

“Father will understand,” Ned insisted. Howland reluctantly left the comfort of Ned’s nape to meet his eyes. His arms were still wrapped around his waist. Ned did not falter in his resolve from the stare; if anything, his resilience grew stronger. “The Neck is a valued part of the North. It is our duty to see to his safety. Have you a place to stay?”

Lord Howland shook his head. “I traveled too lightly, I am afraid.”

“You can stay in Lyanna’s tent, if she does not oppose.”

Lyanna opened her mouth.

“Or I will set up another,” Ned interrupted without waiting for a response. Lyanna was now watching the scene with amusement, as was Benjen. Howland ignored them both; he could feel the giddiness of insects in his gut again. “Guard it myself if I have to.”   
Howland could easily defend himself, but he dared not ruin the moment. “Thank you, my lord.” Howland planted a soft kiss onto Ned’s cheek. “My virtue is in your hands.”

Benjen snorted out loud. Lyanna could no longer contain her laughter and gagged herself with her dress. Ned was a flustered mess—he was not used to being the center of an omega’s attention and that only made Howland wetter. He was going to bed this man, he decided that night. He was going to spread his lips apart and let the man fuck him until he was bruising and swollen.  

“I…I will write to my father at once,” Ned announced stiffly. “Good day, Lord Howland.”

Howland frowned at his quick departure. He stumbled with a pout into Benjen’s arms, resting his head on the alpha’s shoulders, Ned’s cloak pillowing after him. Brandon watched the scene with a strange look and when Howland thought he would continue to lecture them—or at least Lyanna, for her ‘unseemly behavior’, he grabbed the ale on the table and walked off.  

Lyanna waited until she was sure he was gone, before pulling another leather sack from under the table. Howland erupted into another stream of giggles. She poured a cup for each of them. “So what should we play next?”

Howland and Benjen took their cups. Without any semblance of propriety, Howland announced he would like to become their good brother. Lyanna squealed in delight. They spoke of beddings and schemes until dinner. Brandon insisted that Howland sit beside the youngest Stark, resulting in two frustrated eye-rolls from Benjen and Lyanna. Howland was about to ask when a man from the Night’s Watch was given time to make a speech of recruitment. Benjen was absolutely smitten. Howland taught him how to praise properly, so that his admiration was taken as an invitation. His tutelage resulted in the boy’s second kiss. He thanked Howland by trading tents that night.   

***

The tourney was crowded enough that none of the Starks bothered to employ guards for their tents. Though in all fairness, even with their presence, Howland would have managed to slip through. He was resilient that way.

Howland crept in within the second hour of a new day. The tent was voluminous, adequately serving the needs of two virile alphas comfortably. Alphas needed that when they roomed together—though a hassle, it prevented them from succumbing to their territorial instincts. He used the space to his advantage; Howland was able to reach Ned without making a sound. Once his body saw that they were close enough to touch, his cunt throbbed. Howland pressed his fingers against his lips to keep them from spilling over the sheets. He was so wet, and he gave off more heat than a furnace. Unable to resist, he slipped a finger inside.

“Hmm…” He moaned. Ned stir beneath him, and Howland slipped in another finger. He wondered if he was being too brazen with his state of undress. Nothing Howland brought was suitable for seduction, but he decided he would not need it with Ned’s cloak on his shoulders. The present did more than give him piece of mind—it drenched Howland in Ned’s scent. He was desperate for the real thing; Howland doubted there was a price too high for Ned’s cum inside him.

Howland reluctantly removed his fingers from his hole, feeling emptier than ever without them. He wished he brought his toys. To keep his mind off such matters,  he slipped his hands into Ned’s trousers and after some fumbling, managed to get a grip on his cock. Even soft, it felt wonderful to hold. It was stiff and heavy in his hand—Howland bit his lip to bite back another moan. He quickly pulled down the Stark’s pants so that both his hands could get the chance to stroke him. His mouth watered at the sight; Ned’s cock was the biggest he’d ever seen, he was red and wide as a fist, with a leaking head that dripped over Howland’s hands. Howland couldn’t resist—he brought his mouth to the head and sucked.

Howland came as soon as his tongue savored the taste.

Howland’s took his mouth off it at once. His face flushed with embarrassment. If the other omegas in the Neck found out, they would laugh at his inexperiencd. No one came from the first inch, they would jeer. His father was right; Lord Reed insisted he gain some ‘experience’ before he traveled south but Howland refused; citing that he wanted his first ride to be a stallion, not a mule. His naivety made him want to weep. He looked down and sighed longingly.

Only half-hard, and Ned was driving him wild. Howland considered waking him up for the next round, but his body moved faster than his mind, and he straddled his lap instead. Howland rolled his hips against the thickening prick. He ran his wet hands down his chiseled chest—shirtless as a result of southern heat.

Ned choked. With the combined efforts of his rising erection and years of training, or rather, living under the same, airborne roof as Robert Baratheon, he finally awakened. Howland did not expect a soft greeting, but he was surprised when he found himself on his back. Ned had flipped them over as a defensive maneuver. The Stark’s eyes widened when his mind came to, and he immediately stood up, cock fully erect, much to Howland’s pleasure.

He was so close; he could taste it. And the manhandling only got him wetter. He was sure he could take him now.

Not wanting to let the opportunity pass him by, Howland positioned himself to a pose many would consider tempting. He crossed his legs to show a sliver of his lips, wet and pulsing, but hidden. He was teasing him without denying him. And Ned proved himself to be the strongest man alive when he turned his head away.

“Get dressed, Lord Reed. This is… _beneath you_.”

Howland frowned. A strange feeling surfaced into his gut, and he realized that this was what one one called _insulted_. Howland did not like it at all. “I rather be beneath you,” Howland countered, trying to muster up his confidence. He may be more inexperienced than his brethren but he was no less stubborn. Brief amusement flashed past Ned’s face and the man glanced back at him. Once again, Ned turned away. Despite his faux bravado, Howland wondered if his initial assessment was correct. He was never one to hold his liquor, and he drunk far too much ale and wine to be considered lucid when he met Ned. Perhaps, that look Ned gave him was concern and nothing else. Perhaps, the cloak was a gesture of sympathy for a lone omega. Ned was a good man, everyone said so. His siblings raved about his honor, and so do his men.

Howland’s blood ran cold.

Perhaps he was too honorable to associate with the likes of crannogman.

Howland got up. 

“Don’t.”

Howland looked at Ned. The Stark was still hard, but now, he was throbbing. Howland squeezed his thighs together to keep from touching himself.

“Dress yourself,” Ned commanded. His breath was as heavy as his balls, swollen with seed. Howland regretted not taking time to suck them off before Ned awoke. It may have been his only chance. “I…I will not be able to contain myself if I see you.”

Oh.

Howland covered his mouth to hide his delight. He wanted to smile, but moreover he wanted to cry in relief. He tried to meet Ned’s eyes but the man was still looking away, waiting for Howland to leave.

“If it pleases my lord, I would see to it that you find release in me,” Howland told him. He got up from the bed, and much to Ned’s chagrin, he was still undressed. “Again and again,” he pushed. “I’ve never known a knot. You’re so big, you’d turn me inside out, make my holes pink and swollen from all the times your balls pounded against my lips.” Howland could feel the older boy shiver. His head was turning purple. It looked delicious, thick, dark, and uncut. A healthy bush of hair sat on top, reeking in Ned’s natural odor. Howland licked his lips. “I would beg for it,” Howland promised. “I’m begging now. Please.”

Howland entangled his fingers with Ned’s, and loved how the man dwarfed him in all aspects. Ned was big everywhere. Ned shivered; he gripped the damp appendages and brought them to his nose. He could smell the sex on them. He yanked Howland towards him, until their mouths closed any distance they had.

Howland shrieked. If anyone walked by their tent, they would know what was happening at once. They knew whose tent this belonged to; could see the flag with the wolf sigil flying at the top. They would whisper about it, how Ned deflowered a lost crannogman and made him limp across the camp with his seed running down his thighs.

Howland laughed at the tale. He couldn’t stop kissing the man if he wanted to. He loved Ned’s tongue, so active and prodding. The older boy wanted to taste every crevice of Howland’s mouth. When all air left his lungs, Howland parted away reluctantly, but Ned continued to attack his face and neck. Howland giggled. With a mouthful, Ned returned to his mouth. Howland took a step back to lead him back to the bed.

“I must have you in me,” Howland whispered. He was speaking so breathily; he did not recognize his own voice. He was nothing like his peers, older omegas who seduced travelers so easily, he’d think they were born doing so.

Ned groaned. Howland’s legs were wrapped around his waist by the time he tried to reason with him. “Stop, Lord Howland,” Ned grunted out.

Howland disobeyed him and continued kissing. “Howland,” he muttered through his kisses. A slippery thing, he managed to get his hands on Ned’s bottom, giving it a good squeeze while he did so.

“What?”

“You may call me,” Howland didn’t know why he was talking, “Howland.” Another kiss. “And I want to call you Ned.” He thought it was appropriate given their situation.  The man would take his maidenhood and his heart all at once. Horrible man, he thought with a giggle.

Ned began to thrust against Howland’s lower lips, but did not penetrate. Howland gasped out and rubbed against, urging him for more.

“You may call anything you wish,” Ned replied. He lifted Howland onto the bed and came on top of him with one fluid in movement. It was terribly arousing. “Howland,” he said for the sake of it.

Howland loved the way he said his name.

“Howland.”

Howland ran his hands down Ned’s back with excitement. His nails, though short, scrapped against back, threatening to leave marks. He would love to see him the next day, covered in scratches.  

“Howland, we must stop.”

No, Howland whined. He did not know what possessed Ned to torture himself so, but Howland swore to put a stop to the madness.

“Howland,” Ned plead. “I will not take your virtue like this.”

“What are you talking about?” Howland asked, frustrated as his quim was pressed against the most gorgeous prick he’d ever seen, belonging to the man he swore would sire his children. If he was not fat with a Stark by the end of the year, he was going to bring down a second hammer of the gods. “My virtue means nothing if I am denied the man I desire.”

Ned sighed, but there was unmistakable happiness in his gaze. “You are too beautiful to be taken for a single night.” He paused in his movements and kissed Howland again; this time with length and sensuality that was missed in their more passion-drive session. Howland whimpered; he begrudgingly admitted he enjoyed these kisses. He liked tasting Ned’s desire as much as he enjoyed feeling them underneath him. “You are not a whore.”

“I want to be your whore,” Howland confessed.

“I want to court you first,” Ned declared quickly. Howland’s words resonated with his cock, which twitched between Howland’s lips.

Howland rolled his hips in response.

“You can court me after.”  

Ned sighed, endeared. He kissed Howland in that lengthy manner again. Deep; Ned’s tongue took over his entire mouth.

“I will do this properly or not at all.” Ned paused. “I’ve known you were mine since the moment I laid eyes on you.”  

Howland did, too. This foolish, honorable, perfect—Howland kissed him again to keep himself from saying the same. If Ned was to court him, he would see the unrelenting force his future bride was. Howland preserved.

“What if you used my ass?” Howland suggested while he spread his legs apart. “It does not count. I swear.”

Ned shook his head. “Howland, I am not a fool.” He’d heard Robert use the same line on many omegas before, and he concluded that yes, it did count.

“Fucking me there cannot possibly result in children!” Howland protested, though he knew his words were weak. “Think of it as a toy to release your seed in.”

“No, Howland.” Though by the gods, Ned was tempted by the offer; Howland Reed had an ass men spent their life’s fortunes on. He confessed to groping a cheek when the boy fell into his arms this afternoon. He was thankful no one noticed. Ned prayed to all the merciful gods that their future children were not blessed with that ass.  

Howland considered his options. The tourney would last a week. A week of celibacy—and that was if he could convince Ned to bed him before the wedding. Perhaps it was the naivety of youth but Howland was already planning his nuptials; he needed something to hold onto for hope.

“Let me use my mouth,” Howland demanded.  “Please,” he added as an afterthought.

Ned stared, his eyes honed in on Howland’s heart-shaped lips. His mouth was plush and welcoming, and his throat, tight. After a disconcertingly short amount of time, Ned relented to his demand. The triumph on Howland’s face was worth it—as was his wet tongue.

Ned was big on his own, but for someone of Howland’s slight, he might as well be carrying a tree. Howland wrapped both his hands around the dick, one at the base, one around the middle, and even with his mouth suckling on his head, there were a few inches to spare. Despite his earlier grievances of Ned’s honor, he was grateful the man was not the type to lend out his sword. If other omegas knew of his size, Howland would be queuing to ride him.

“Fuck,” Ned grunted out. Both hands gripped his bed, and Howland’s cock twitched from the sound of that crack—he loved it, headboard breaking, grounds quaking, all signs that a fucking was so rough that the world was falling apart. Ned’s knuckles were turning white; he was trying to control himself.   

And Howland was not going to have that.

The wily crannogman pushed more inches inside his mouth until he could feel tip hitting his throat. Ned was thrusting now, slow, relenting thrusts to get Howland used to the feel. He was being considerate, and it was killing him. Howland responded by pushing more in until his nose was nestled against Ned’s balls, swollen and even more aching for release. Then, he did the one thing his friends swore would drive an alpha _mad_.

He swallowed.

Howland’s mouth struggled to fit more inside him. His tongue was pressed against the underside of the cock and he was determined to have more. He used his hands to make up for any lost attentions. His fingers stroked the rest of the shaft and when they were feeling particularly attentive, they worked at his balls. Ned sped up his thrusts, still fighting for control but losing. His hands left his sides and were entangled in Howland’s curls. Howland could taste the precum oozing in his mouth.

Howland did not think it was possible, but he felt Ned’s cock getting bigger in his mouth. It was only at the tip—and Howland nearly came when he realized Ned was _knotting_ him. In his mouth.

Howland wondered if it was possible to come without being touched. He was drooling all over the dick now, with some of the saliva pouring down his cock. Ned’s cock was stretching his throat, and like a good bitch, his body accommodates by distending to an unnatural proportion.

“You’re amazing,” Ned swore. “Fuck, I can’t stop myself…”

Howland’s cunt throbbed from the praise. He felt a familiar tightness in his stomach that meant his release was near. Ned gave up at this point; he started fucking his knot up and down until Howland is gagging. Howland hadn’t gagged on anything since he was fourteen and received his first toy, but he was gagging now and Ned loved it. After one final thrust that had Howland, the alpha stilled. He dumped a large, filling load down Howland’s throat that left him feeling sated and blissed out. It tasted _so good_. Howland swore that if he was able to drink this for the rest of his life, he would never need another meal. Even as he pumped his load, Ned never let go of his hair. Between the swallowing and the cum pouring out of his mouth, it was enough for him to come. Howland imagined he was a sight; his face was pressed against Ned’s sac, his cunt dripped all over the ground while his cock was limping above the floor, spent. His jaw ached, his knees would display burns that would tell the whole world what had happen, if the swollen lips did not.

This was bliss, Howland thought to himself. He never wanted it to end.

Eventually, Ned left the comforts of his mouth. He took a few moments to collect himself before picking Howland up like a cat and laying him on the bed. With a bare behind and a wet, soft dick, Ned went to get a washcloth from his belongings. Howland enjoyed the view immensely. He preened when Ned started on his aftercare. Ned paused when his cloth hit the side of his lip. After a minute of contemplation, Howland was startled when Ned leaned in for another kiss.

Howland dodged him at once.

Ned stared.

Howland avoided his gaze. If he looked into his eyes, he would want to kiss him. “Your seed is in my mouth,” he explained. From the tales he heard, most alphas did not care to taste themselves after a session. They found it dirty—emasculating to have touched a cock, even their own. Ned was a good man; he might be doing so as a gesture of kindness. “You do not have to force yourself.”

Howland was surprised when he was pulled into a kiss. He soon fell into a familiar rhythm of tongues and lips. When they parted, he was breathing as if he finished a spar. He smiled, shyly, for once the allure of a bedding was lost, they were left with only each other.

“If anything shall require force, it is keeping me away from you.” Ned took a deep breath before kissing Howland’s forehead. “You’ve taken over me.” He resigned to leave, but Howland used the last of strength to grab his arm.

“Stay,” he begged.

Ned was reluctant, and he looked like he hated himself more for the fact. “If they find out you’ve spent the night…” 

“Let them find out,” Howland insisted. “You said I was under your protection. Let them talk about how I’ve earned it.”  

Ned couldn’t refuse the suggestion then. He cleaned the rest of the smut off Howland’s form, and then joined him underneath the covers where they would rest. During the night, Howland told him stories about his travels. Ned listened with apt ears, even when his eyes weighed boulders. The Reed ended on the story of three boys who accosted him at the river, where he was rescued by a she-wolf.

“The boys are still at large?” Ned had asked while Howland’s vision darkened.

“Hmm,” Howland mumbled. He sunk his face into Ned’s chest and allowed the man’s heartbeat to lull him to sleep.  

***

It came to a shock for Ned, when Brandon became the chief crier following their tryst. He had deigned to visit his tent upon his absence at breakfast, where they overheard Howland insisting that the bottom _really didn’t count_.

Ned had laughed. Howland was sitting on his cock, while his butt, buoyant with bounce and fat with purpose, faced Ned. Ned must have had a wizard’s willpower for by the sound of it, he was as untouched as a Silent Sister.

“You are impossible,” Ned said, and he sounded exasperated, but charmed.

While Howland rode him in reverse, he continued his argument by claiming he could “put in the tip.”  

In response, Ned slapped Howland’s ass. Howland was so surprised by the ungentlemanly behavior that fell off with a yelp and returned to Ned’s arms. Brandon chose to barge in at that moment.  

“Brandon, what are you—!” Ned grasped at the blankets to cover Howland, leaving him and his cum-crusted chest visible for his brother to see. “What are you doing here?”

Brandon ignored him. “Leave us,” he ordered Howland. Howland responded with a look of irritation. He did not move to leave, practically making a show of his indecency.

“You are not Lord Stark yet,” Howland declared. He kissed Ned’s shoulder and smiled at him. “Your brother is my commander.”

Ned blushed and fondly kissed his forehead. He returned his attention to his brother right after. “I will get up. You came on good time; I should prepare for the tourney.”

Howland could be heard giggling. He lifted up his hand and allowed Ned to give him a kiss goodbye. When Ned finished dressing, they left the tent. 

Brandon’s eyes narrowed.

 “You are joining the contest?”

Ned nodded. “I have matters to settle.”

“On the crannogman’s behalf, I assume?”

Ned frowned, reverting back to his revered solemnity. “They insulted our house when they laid their hands on him.”

“You’ve not even met him!”

“His father is one of our father’s most loyal supporters. He is the heir to his house, and will one day carry his sigil in your honor. It is an insult whether I know him intimately or in name.” Ned swallowed. “I’ve given him my word. I intend to court him, starting with the tourney’s wins.”

Brandon glared. “You’ve had your release, Ned. End this infatuation.”

“This is not an infatuation. I’ve held off on bedding him—carnally,” Ned corrected, given that Howland was indeed in his bed and they had slept together. “To dignify my intentions to father.”

Finally, Brandon played his last card. “I forbid it.”

Ned raised an eyebrow. “Brandon, you’ve had your share of bedpartners and sated your lusts on noblewomen and whores. I am not you. I have found my mate, and he will the first and last person I ever bring to bed.”

“Then have your fill of him,” Brandon agreed. “And cast him to your brethen.”

Ned grabbed him by the collar. “You will not touch him,” he threatened.

“I do not intend to,” Brandon assured. “Now recover your reason.”

Ned let him go. “I see nothing but the greed of a man I thought loved me.” Ned turned his heel. 

“Are you so blind?” Brandon asked, his voice simmering on the verge of desperation. “To not see the potential that is in front of you?” Brandon shook his head. “If he is a boon from the gods, then he is not meant for you.”

Ned waited, though his fist shook as his older brother spoke.

Brandon peered into the tent as if he could see through it. “This is the first omega who’s ever received Benjen’s gaze. The first one who’s made him laugh, who he has allowed into his company since our own mother passed.” Brandon turned to Ned. “We can make something of this.”

“Must you continue to disregard Benjen’s will?” Ned asked, his tongue scathing for both himself and his younger brother.

“This is an act of duty,” Brandon growled. “I am his brother. Do you think he will be happy as he is? Bending over for men whose sworn themselves to dry wives and or choose frozen balls to save their cocks? At best he will be the laughingstock of our family and by the gods, I could care less about the ridicule. It won’t affect us, a smudge on our tapestries, a crack in our crypts. I could give a whore’s fuck. But I won’t let him settle for the scraps. Reed is a pretty thing, and as you said, he will be a lord. A tempting position for a third son—”

Brandon did stop talking on his own accord, nor did he let go out of free will. Ned often gave his brother the last word, either out of deference of fatigue. This time, every instinct told him to bite until his fangs hit bone. With more strength than he believed to have possessed, Ned punch his brother across the face.

“Do not think yourself a saint,” Ned growled. “You are enforcing your will upon us, just as father has, only you do not have the power to do so. Howland is right,” Ned found that saying his name gave him more strength. “You are not Lord Stark _yet_. You will not forbid me my right.” Ned marched to the entrance of the tent, leaving Brandon fuming.

“You know nothing, Ned!”

Ned stilled. He turned his back without saying another word.

***

“They call you the Knight of the Laughing Tree,” Howland teased at the banquet. The music was flowing like Riverrun’s finest stream and people danced and galloped like the horses they rode. King Aerys sat on his makeshift throne, a poor imitation of the iron chair that might have broken a few mules backs regardless. He was in a terrible mood, as were the three knights bested in Howland’s armor. Their squires were nursing bruises from their punishment. “You’ve stirred up quite a frenzy. The bards are working their fingers to the bone, hoping to lay a claim to your name.”

Ned drank his ale to cover up his smile. “Justice cannot be claim without a trade. Those squires received their due course.” Howland grasped the back of Ned’s neck and pulled him down. “And I received mine.”

The two northerners kissed beneath the noses of their company. Many of the men were distracted, driven mad by the mystery; all desperate to figure out the identity of the unknown knight. The most vocals of the conspirators were Robert Baratheon and Richard Lonmouth, who had spent the entire afternoon chasing after the retreating figure. Convinced he was after the crown, King Aerys eventually sent his own son on the hunt.

“I shall tell our children this tale for as long as I live,” Howland swore. He was breathless after their kiss, and by the way he pressed against Ned, was ready for more. “I suggest we discuss the details in privacy.” He tugged on the older boy’s shirt. “I think I shall call you the silent wolf.”    

Ned shook his head in mirth. “You may, as long as you put credence where it belongs.”

The Starks were fortunate to receive the assistance they did. Speak of the wolf, Lyanna appeared to them, mocking them for their obscenity. “As I live and breathe, I never thought I’d have to scold my dear Ned for such brazen behavior.” She made a loud ‘tsking’ noise that was stifled by the cheers. “But I will not miss the opportunity—Ned, how dare you defile my new friend?”

Ned choked while Howland giggled. Taking pity on his lover, he responded. “You are mistaken, my lady. It is I who came into his bed like some succubus and demanded he find a dream between my legs. But this beast withheld his most prized possession unless I give him mine’s.” He tenderly thumbed Ned’s lower lip. “Confess, does no hot blood run in your brother’s veins?”

“If you are looking for heat, you’ve sought the wrong brother.” Lyanna laughed. She moved to drink her refreshment.

Ned’s hand halted her efforts. “One drink,” he reminded her. “Or else I tell father.”

“‘Or else I tell father,’” Lyanna mocked. Regardless of her rebellion, she took a smaller sip to satisfy her brother.

Howland rolled his eyes.

“Ned, let her enjoy this night. We owe her a great deal, or have you forgotten her bravery in facing the strapping, ruthless Rhaegar Targaryen?” Howland reminded him.

Ned frowned.   

Following his besting of the three knights, Ned dashed away to change out of his armor, hoping to avoid the attentions his presence would cause. But the tourney was running amuck with aggression and arrogance, and soon, there was a chase. Alphas from all over the realm set on their horses to identify him; his closest friend was on him like a hound. To lose weight, Ned had dropped his shield at his family’s foot. The sight of the steel encouraged Lyanna to take matters into her own hand. She donned on whatever she could find on such notice—mismatched bits and pieces of armor that poorly fitted her—and stole a horse of similar coloring and her brother’s equally pilfered shield. Most of the men were too blinded by ambition to notice their differences. Lyanna was an excellent rider—the best in her family. Many gave up, except for the last man to join the fray—Rhaegar Targaryen, who pursued Lyanna as if her womb carried a dragon.

With a hefty sigh and lost on his records, Ned pardoned himself to fetch Howland a plate. The gesture was not lost on either of the omegas. Ned was making a show—or as much as a show as Ned could be given credit for—of courting Howland. His actions were neither loud nor pompous, but contemplative and careful. It started with hospitality, a cloak around his shoulders, a gesture of safe-keeping, before evolving into feats of strength—the tourney wins and the aggression towards Brandon, another alpha. Finally, it was settling into displays of providence—bringing him food and water, making sure he is fed and sated by Ned’s own hand. The crannogman did not doubt there would be game in his future, an impressive boar or ferocious stag. If that was not enough, the second son was building a wall between Howland and the guests. He glared at the alphas who stared from afar, and spent the early hours growling at any of them who drew near. 

“You’ve done yourself a service by snatching him,” Lyanna declared when he was away. “Out of all my brothers, he is the one that will make other wives envious.”

“The gods are good,” Howland agreed. He smiled at Lyanna. “Tell me, how is such a man without proposition?”

“Oh, there are offers.” Lyanna scoffed. “Father receives them by an unkindness every week.”

“An unkindness?” Howland tilted his head, confused. “What are those?”

“A flock of ravens,” she answered, amused. “Are there truly no ravens in your lands?”

“They come and go. But they do not serve your purposes there.”

Lyanna nodded. “Regardless, they come to Winterfell, almost always by lords and ladies who’ve only sired omegas. They hope to make an arrangement, see if he is worth his reputation and if he is, intend to find a good son who is trustworthy. But Father never allows it without Ned’s consent and Ned never consents. Outside of his fostering, father rarely interferes with Ned. I suppose he has less to worry with him.” Lyanna shook her head in amusement. “Only Ned could rebel by courting the North’s most loyal bannerman.”

Howland did not respond. He and Lyanna were content to watch Ned get reluctantly pulled into a seat next to Robert Baratheon. They were having another drinking competition, having passed out yesterday before a victor could be named. This time, they would be superseded by a sober party. Ned sent Howland an apologetic look, as all his attempts to leave were overwhelmed by the stag’s sheer will.

Suddenly, Lyanna announced her departure. “I…I am rather tired. It has been a long day.”

Howland stared at her strangely. Her voice was off, as if a ghost laid his hands on her. Howland took her hand in his. “Lyanna, what is wrong?”

Lyanna shook her head. “Nothing, I am feeling frail—”

“You’re about as frail as a weirwood tree.” Lyanna’s eyes were panicked. She turned to the direction of the exit, where Howland could vaguely make out a collection of shadows. Such imagery meant nothing, for there were plenty of men who were catching air or conversing privately. But there was one figure who had notably long hair, and Howland saw that Prince Rhaegar was no longer in sight.

“Lyanna—”

“Please, Howland. I shall explain in due time.” She joined the shadow outside, and before Howland could follow, a dark, imposing figure stood in his way.

“Lord Brandon,” Howland addressed. He glanced passed his shoulder, only to see that Lyanna had disappeared. After a soft sigh, he smiled courteously at the Stark heir. “What a pleasure. How may I be of service to you tonight?”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Brandon replied, with a smile of his own—equally false but a sight to behold regardless. Howland could see why he left so many scattered hearts and ruined pussies in his wake. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you in private.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, but every time I try, you seem to be in the company of my siblings. You have them absolutely besotted. You must teach me your spells.” 

“Join our conversations and you shall see my witchcraft at work,” Howland suggested.

“I’ve already seen your bewitching, crannogman.”

The air around them grew thick. Howland thought the musicians stopped playing before he realized that it was merely the presence of Brandon Stark that deafened them. He would not last a day in the neck, Howland thought, a man of his presence.

Yet Howland’s relationship was so fresh in its infancy that he decided against a scene. He would smile, for the edges in his lips could just as easily slit a man’s throat.

“My lord, you’ve disappointed me. Are you so impatient that you could only muster a minute’s worth of pleasantries? My, your charming reputation has been overstated.” Howland shook his head. “Though perhaps I should be grateful you’ve only titled me with the truth. I was expecting ‘bog devil.’”

Brandon gulped his wine like a horse. Howland watched him wryly.

“Do not insult me,” Brandon replied. He grabbed a passing maid’s pitcher and gave her a smile that could make a Silent Sister swoon. “I care not that you are a crannogman, Lord Howland. On contrary, no one has served our house more faithfully than those of the Neck. I should be proud to have you as my good brother.”

 “I have a feeling that your next sentiments will not end with praise.”   

“ _But_ ,” Brandon began. “This is not love. This is lust. You’ve got a cunt and he a cock, and it is primitive instinct that leads you together.”

Howland took a step closer to him. “If you are so sure, why bother us at all? Why not wait, for the flames to fall to ash and the waters to turn a tide?” Howland peered into his eyes like a spying crow.

Brandon smirked. “As you’ve said, I am impatient.”

Howland glanced over at Ned, smiled, before turning back to Brandon. He undid the buttons on his shirt, drawing Brandon’s eye to his collarbone. Bare and ready for a biting.

 “It is rather cruel of you, to not give him the chance to unload in me. Have his cum pour inside my defenseless womb, and father his first bastard. Or second. Or third.” His voice was smooth, with a crackle of a fire in them and Brandon could feel the heat on his lips. “Or perhaps you want my womb fresh for your own?”

Brandon grabbed the crannogman’s arm and shoved him into a darkened corner, where his head hit the wall. Even Howland, who was used to the bruises of fallen trees and his playmates blunt spears, winced.

“Do not think yourself a rose with the thorns to blind a man’s eye.” Brandon glared. “You are beautiful, but your beauty comes not from actual bloom but from the rarity of your breed. Take him to the Neck and he will see you for what you are—a common whore.” Howland opened his mouth to speak but Brandon slammed his palm against the side of Howland’s face. The wall sent a shock that silenced him. “I’ve arranged a maid by the name of Ashara Dayne to dance with him tonight.”

Howland’s eyes widened. He tried to escape the man’s company but found himself caged by the larger man’s arms. He glared.

“You will release me.”

“He’s mooned after her since he was a child.” Brandon smiled rakishly. “She is renowned; men from all over the realm fall to her feet for the hope to look up at her eyes—her haunting purple eyes. I’ve never seen such a shade of violet and let me say, for me to be distracted by a woman’s face and not her tits, is the mark of a great beauty.”

Howland could have spit on him. “Let me return to him, and we shall see who he chooses.”

Brandon did not relent. “Why give him opportunity to cast you away?” He moved his left hand from the wall and trailed it down towards Howland’s waist. Howland’s breath hitched. “In all deals, we strive to be the one that never looks back. Let him yearn for you as one would dessert instead of the meal.”

 “You would have me an option rather than a priority. My, you are a stupid man if you believe that offer is an enticement,” Howland hissed. “How do you suppose your family shall hold their head up high? Hmm? Shall they rejoice when your bastards are birthed on the sheets your wife has woven? While your brother finds heaven between my thighs and his wife watches over with her pretty, purple eyes?”

“People seek a scandal in the south, they look for stability in the north,” Brandon insisted, more stubbornly in fact. Howland could see his already thin patience being whittled into a splinter. “I am not a villain. If you wished to wed a Stark, then enrich your bloodline with my youngest brother. He regards you a friend and is not the greatest unions those of comradery?” Brandon asked him, “And if Ned is to take liberties during your marriages, I am sure his wife will not oppose.” Brandon chuckled, amused. “The Dornish are odd that way.”    

The last sentence brought a chilling sense of clarity upon Howland. He was made him all the more aware of Brandon’s appearance: strong, handsome, fearsome in a way that would leave any alpha or omega shaking—albeit for many different reasons. Howland’s body relaxed until his back was leaning against the wall.  

 “Tell me, Lord Brandon, how did you persuade Lady Ashara to this arrangement?”

Brandon remained unashamed by his reveal. He leaned closer still and though Howland took a moment to look away when his breath fell upon him, he eventually returned his gaze. “Ashara is rather sweet on me; has been for years. She was heartbroken when she learned of my betrothal so today, we sought to ease each other’s worries. Her, a lost love, and me, the wellbeing of my brothers.” Brandon admitted with a chuckle. “I may have insinuated that as long as she is a Stark, she is always welcomed in Winterfell.”  

“And your bed?”

“I intend to be an attentive good brother,” Brandon said as he used his hand to brush against Howland’s cheek. “And all to your advantage if Ned follows my goodwill.”

“Yes.” Howland smiled ruefully. “You’ve built a fine, incestuous nest for your cuckold to lay its eggs in. A home where good brothers and sisters can fuck each other witless, where the white cum running down our thighs spills to the floor for each other to lap upon.” His green eyes burned like wildfire. “I hope you have the first taste from your brother’s cunt.”

Brandon did not hesitate to strike him, but Howland’s anger returned tenfold. For as a young man, he had little control over his urges. Howland kicked Brandon in his groin, which startled the man but not enough to make him fall to his knees. Before Brandon could retaliate, Howland took out his knife from his wrist. Brandon, ever the enforcer, caught his wrist and pressed it against the wall. Howland head butt him away, before jutting back to the festivities.

Brandon followed, but neither of them continued chase when they saw Ned Stark letting go of Ashara’s waist to finish the dance. He turned to Howland, and offered him a smile so small, it’d be undetected by even the finest of hawks.

Yet Howland did not care for the smile was reserved for him, and his heart calmed. He walked towards Ned but then stopped in front of Ashara Dayne.

Howland possessed far more recklessness as a child than he did as an adult—an attribute that waned after the birth of his first child. Howland loved his gifts, relished by how fire spilled out of his hands like wine, how the water glistened upon his kiss, or how he could make a man tremor with the flick of his fingers. It took a great deal of effort, migraines that would last hours, weirwood leaves crushed and turned to ash, taking a bit of Howland’s blood with it. But in his youth, he thought the sacrifice worth it all.

His still did, in his own way, and even now, he believed the suffering of a poor girl was worth his ire.  All of Ashara’s poise vanished upon Howland’s presence. She could not pinpoint the origin of her chills, but she found herself shaking as soon as his eyes laid upon her. She bowed her head as a gesture of respect. “Lord Howland. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Howland smiled, but his eyes were designated for appraisal. “You know who I am?”

Ashara nodded. “They speak of you, here. Said that we would sooner see a giant south of the wall than a crannogman out of the neck.”

Howland chuckled. He took a step closer. Out of instinct, Ashara took a step back. Howland tilted his head in amusement. “And what is your name, pretty thing?” He asked as if he did not know.

“Ashara Dayne,” she answered.

“Ashara Dayne,” Howland repeated. “Lady Ashara Dayne. The maid with purple eyes. A beauty so great it is said she was bespoken by the gods.”

Ashara seemed smaller after the declaration. She was used to hearing praise for her beauty, even in the jealous whispers of her fellow ladies, or in the lustful moans of the men who desired her, but Howland was not threatened by her face but her presence. She was an eyesore, an annoyance. She was sure that the man before her would swat her like a bug and not think twice.

And she was right.

To Howland, she was a pitiful thing. Despite her beauty and her upbringing, the girl was soft as curdled milk. Howland supposed he should not be surprised, given her brother—a man would have to be half-mad to risk the wrath of Arthur Dayne. And her status as handmaiden to the princess would serve her no favors, either. King Aerys kept his family under a looking glass hot enough to burn them like ants, and their comrades by association. Howland doubted there was a companion not vetted like criminals who went near the royal family—Ashara was sheltered, coddled, and delicate as old thread.

“Lady Ashara, I heard a rumor that in Dorne, omegas greet each other through kisses.”

Sha licked her lips, suddenly so dry. “Yes, Lord Howland. We do not fear touch in the sands.”

“Neither do we in the Neck. You would not be surprised to learn, then, that in the Neck, we do the same,” Howland informed. “Would you kiss me, Lady Ashara?”

More attention was drawn to the pair with the declaration. It was a perverse dream of many, for two omegas of such beauty to engage in affections. Half the crowd would grow wild with so much as a chaste peck on the cheek.

Ashara was nervous, but relented to Howland’s demand. She leaned forward to rest her lips against his. Howland met her the other half of the way. Their greeting was brief, but roused the entire crowd who cheered at the scene.

As they parted, Howland’s hand pressed against her stomach, stunning her. He paused against her ear and whispered:

“Touch Ned again, and I will slit you tongue to clit, you bedbound cur.”

When they faced each other, Howland was smiling again. Ashara was horrified, and though she tried to smile again, it was not the same. Her brother, from afar, came to her aid, glaring at the crannogman the entire time.

Howland turned away and offered Ned his hand. There was a moment of hesitant, followed by a command of his name by his older brother. Yet youth was synonymous with bullheadedness that led the young man to take the hand outside where they would continue to speak.

Ashara would seek consolation in Brandon, who would find his prick an instrument of comfort. Her body would swell and out from her thighs would slither a stone, unmoving and stagnant. Grief would ruin her mind like a poppy cloud, until she sought relief at the top of a tower.

***

Years later, Howland would come to the conclusion that he was foolish for believing the same trick would work twice. Catelyn Tully was more of a survivor than Howland gave her credit for, and thus, his plan never came to completion.

Magic was limited in that regard. Howland was skilled, but he could not defy the principles of nature without offering a boon to the gods, one he was sure he would not be able to pay. He could not bring back the dead, he could not move throughout time or change the course of history, and he could not force someone to do something they were not willing to do.

Sometimes, Howland wondered if his biggest mistake was not underestimating the Tully’s will but overestimating Ned’s honor.

Howland realized, bound to Ned’s headboard and gagged with a cloth soaked in his lord’s sweat, that he may have won, all those years ago. With the right push, Ned may have chosen him. He told himself he couldn’t, that such a betrayal would haunt their relationship until they exorcised all happiness from it. That it wasn’t love that prevented him from clouding his true husband with a spell, but fear. He was scared—scared that Ned wouldn’t choose him, would never go against his duty.

And though he was trapped by his past mistakes, Howland was grateful to be wrong. Ned would have chosen him. His imprisonment for the last few days were proof, and though he was made the face of tragedy, he had to have small mercies as a prisoner. For the saddest prisoner of them all, was one who tied their own nooses.

Howland admitted that his confinement was self-inflicted. Howland received more poundings than a baker’s lifetime supplies of dough, but he never fought against his captor. He often told himself: ‘next time,’ he would fight back. ‘Next time’ he would find the source of Ned’s enchantment and ceased the madness once and for all. But with each thrust, there was a thrill, and with each bite, his blood pumped and he gasped and they fell into their soiled sheets as Howland’s holes were flooded and his whole body fucked beyond repair until ‘next time.’ And ‘next time’ came again and again, and Howland remained limp and loose, until Ned found it fit to put his fist in him. Oh, and how Howland screamed the first that happened. The jut of the man’s wrist bone pressed against his clit and how his fingers pried him open for more. Ned became bolder after that. Anything that could claim Howland as his, was fitted into his stretched out cunt. Howland received it all with such shamelessness, such wantonness, that one would think ‘next time’ was the first and thousandth cock he’d ever taken.    

When they were finished with their latest rutting, Ned pulled him up by his golden curls and dropped him against his chest. Howland grumbled when a blindfold was fixed around his eyes. Ned did so whenever they were to eat. As if Howland did not know that Ned poured his release onto his food before feeding it to him. Howland had spent too many years swallowing his load to not recognize the smell.

The crannogman waited for Ned to finish his business. His water alongside the sound of slickness and his cock twitched with every grunt. On habit, he rubbed against his sheets to ease the aching. Finally, he heard Ned make a final noise of relief.

Howland sighed as he was fed a cum-crusted apple. He sucked on the piece first, savoring he combination of natural salt and sugars before taking a bite. It was followed by a kiss. The pattern continued until Howland finished his second apple slice, and he was on the poultry when they heard a knock on the door.

Howland was surprised when he heard Catelyn’s voice. She never visited, though in all fairness, only maester Luwin did. Sometimes as a plea to sanity before Ned threatened his livelihood and other times to check up on his wellbeing. Luwin made an attempt each time to inform Howland of his children’s whereabouts. “Jon and Robb are having their meal in their room. Will you be joining them?” “Jon’s instruction is today. Have you overseen the lesson plan?” Ned did not respond to well to such inquiries, but Luwin continued to make them for Howland’s sake. 

“Jon has gone missing again,” Catelyn told him.

Howland jumped from his bed. Again? He thought. What did she mean again? He tried to break his bounds, but the ropes held him back. The blindfold remained steady around his eyes. “I’ve sent men to check the godswoods, and they should be reporting back.” Catelyn’s tone was resigned. This must be a more common occurrence than Ned could ever care to admit.

“Robb?”

“Robb is in his room,” Catelyn said quickly.

“How long?” Ned growled.

Howland heard him take a step closer. He could smell Catelyn’s fear.

“Ten minutes, at most. He was finished with lunch last time I was aware.”

Howland heard he slammed the door. Howland’s questions died when Ned kissed him back into the bed. “Stay,” he ordered, as if Howland had a choice.

“What happened? Is Jon alright?” Howland asked, breathlessly.

Ned did not answer.

“Ned? Ned, I can help. Untie me. Let me use my gifts.”

Howland could hear grabbing something from his dresser. The flapping of fabric against wood brought him chills.

“Ned?”

The cloth touched his face. 

“Ned!” He screamed before being muzzled.    

Howland clenched his fists. Without the means to cast his spells or the hands to cut his ropes, he was helpless. He twisted and turn for ages, only to hear the door open once more. He started to beg; beg like a dog for Ned or the gods to free him. His prayers were answered when a knife touched his wrists and undid the binds.

Howland got up at once. When he took out the gag and ripped off his blindfold, he moved to sway Ned to his madness. Yet Ned was not there.

Catelyn Tully stood as his savior.

Before Howland could beg the question, Catelyn grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him to the door. “We must move swiftly,” she told him. “Jon is secured in the stables for a lesson. A miracle that Ned does not recall. He will discover our deception if we are not quick.”

“What is going on?” Howland asked.

Catelyn shoved a robe into his arms. “I will explain as we move,” she said.

Howland obeyed, sympathetic to her desperation. He wrapped the robes around his body until his head was completely covered from view.

When they made a turn into a different hallway, a few guards did their patrol. Catelyn and Howland hid in a corridor. Before they could continue, Howland’s curioustiy got the better of him. He grabbed Catelyn’s shoulder and forced her to face him.

“What is happening, Lady Catelyn?”

“We don’t have time,” Catelyn hissed.

“We will make time,” Howland bit back. “For I have been bound for countless days and possibly week. I have not seen my children. I’ve heard no word of my home or husband. You will damn well answer me!” His shouts echoed in the hall.

“Keep your voice down!” Catleyn whispered heatedly. She relented, knowing full well cooperation began with a simple truth. “Bran is sick,” she told him. “Maester Luwin cannot find out the cause. He sent word to the Citadel, but we’ve heard no word. I’ve consulted in hedge doctors and apothecaries…”  
Quacks and chemists.

“But they cannot figure out the cure. I thought…” Catelyn looked away, ashamed. “I thought you could help. I suspect it is in the realm of your… _expertise_.”

Witchcraft.

Howland took a step back; less offended had the woman slit his throat. “You cannot be accusing me of—”

“I am not!” Catelyn snapped. “I know you would never hurt Ned’s children.” Catelyn bit her lip and looked down, as to conceal her own humiliation. For she could say this of Howland, but never of herself. “But if it is sorcery, then you might know the cure.”

Another pair of steps drew near. Howland did not hesitate to respond. He nodded at Catelyn, an agreement to their shaky alliance, and followed her throughout the castle. When they finally reached Bran’s bedroom, Howland humbled into a chill. His body froze. His teeth chattered. His fingers became stiff and his skin blue.

“What is wrong?”

Howland gritted his teeth; he willed his bones to bend, urged his blood to boil and flesh to feel. Catelyn stared, and after some time, Howland took a deep breath.

“You are not wrong,” Howland managed out. “This is sorcery at work. Powerful sorcery.”  

Catelyn looked at him, fearful as a fox in a trap. She rushed into Bran’s room, more terrified than ever of her son’s fate. Howland concentrated and after a few moments of concentration, was able to continued inside.

Bran’s bed was drenched in a combination of cold sweats and ice water. Discarded towels laid all over the bed—Howland betted that any fabric that touched his body lost all heat. His skin was ashen and blue; when Howalnd pressed his fingers against his pulse, it pounded like a hummingbird yet his breath was slow as mud. His eyes were open. Blue, pupil-less orbs staring into nothingness. Howland leaned in and kissed his forehead, ignoring the hitch of disgust coming from Catelyn’s mouth.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Almost a week.” About the same time Howland was held captive—and that was the reason Catelyn must have broken him out. She was no fool; she knew that while Howland would never hurt the children, he was still connected to the disease.

The pieces of the puzzles aligned themselves together. Jojen was right about Bran—he had a gift, one that would surpass all the powers of every crannogmen combined, and perhaps even those that sing the songs of earth. He was a greenseer; Howland no longer doubted it.

To his company’s surprise and even himself, Howland laughed. “You naughty boy,” Howland whispered with such wonder.

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know the cause of his ailment?”

Howland nodded. “He is… _ill_.” He could not reveal the entire truth, not only because it was forbidden but because Catelyn Tully would not understand. If she did, Howland was sure she would never let him foster him, and after today, Howland could not risk that.

“Can you help him?” Catelyn asked; she was impatient and frustrated and worried enough that Howland could not blame her behavior. He was a mother, too.

“I can.” Oh, but with such power the boy had, it would take the remains of Howland’s strength. “Leave the room.”

Catelyn hesitated.

“Lady Catelyn, I cannot stress the severity of this situation. You need to leave the room. Bran needs you to be strong. He needs you to trust me.” Howland paused. “You said it yourself. I would never hurt Ned’s children.”

The affirmation made, Catelyn nodded. She left the room and closed the door.

Howland turned back to Bran. He took a deep breath before pressing his head against Bran’s heart. He closed his eyes and whispered a song that would send him to sleep. Howland made his dreams into a soft cloud, airy and light enough to enter Bran’s mind without alerting his defenses. The boy was strong and without control, he could easily reject or even trap Howland’s consciousness within him. Once Howland pierce his outermost layer, he tried to soothe the ruptured prison the child made for himself. Everything was dark and cold, blurred or cracked. Howland struggled to make it warm, to mend the broken and keep the shards from falling. It grated against Howland’s head horribly, but the lord persevered.

Finally, he found it.

The root of the obsession.

With the gentle touches cannot, Howland was left with one choice. He wrapped his magic around the cause and unleashed a torrent of power, filling Bran with warmth. Howland could feel his energy drain from him, and it was sudden and sickening. Howland struggled to maintain his hold but he knew he had no choice. He could feel Bran’s life restoring to him. The spell took too much energy out of his young body. He was not ready, but Howland was. Howland was to bear the burden in his place, and he would not hesitate to carry such a feat. Not for Bran.

The darkness quivered and shook, before disappearing in a flash. The spark knocked Howland backwards, launching onto the floor. The abrupt noise forced Catelyn’s concern, and she returned to the room in fear. “Bran!” She shouted. Catelyn ran to him. Her eyes widened when she saw her son—the rosiness returned to his cheeks, heat flushed throughout his body.  Howland was relieved. The effect was near instantaneous.

Howland used the last of his strength to get off his feet.

Catelyn kissed her son for a second time before moving to Howland’s side. “Is it over?” She asked. “Is he well again?”

Howland nodded, though another dizzy spell overwhelmed him. His legs shook and it was thanks to Catelyn’s quickness that he remained off the ground. He held onto her shoulder as he answered.

“Yes,” Howland answered. “It will take a few days for him to fully recover, but he is no longer plagued by the disease.” And Ned’s enchantment shall wane within the hour. “I need rest.”

Catelyn must have agreed, for she allowed him to hold onto her body as she led him outside the room. “Thank you,” she told him as they walked.

The two of them were cautious not to be seen, as Ned will be looking for Howland once his disappearance was noticed. While they snuck into a darkened corridor, lightened by a single window, Catelyn asked if he was sure his treatment worked.

“Yes,” Howland answered again. “He will return to his self, as will others affected by his ailments.” Howland was sure of his success. Nausea churned in his stomach, and he swore a god’s knife was being hammered into his head. “I doubt a pain as great as this comes from nothing. Hence your presence,” Howland joked, much to Catelyn’s distaste. Her irritation was sensed by him, and though a while ago he would have basked in her displeasure, he was more reliant on her than he wished. “The cure was not complex, but tiring. I knew the cause as soon as I saw him, and he has been treated accordingly.”

“And he will need nothing more? It will not come back?”

“No, I’ve made sure of it.” Howland shrewdly added a lock to Bran’s gifts—something mild that would keep until he was older and more prepared for such power.

Catelyn slumped her shoulders in relief. She continued to lead him down the hall until the movement was too much to take.

“Wait.” Howland stopped. “I need a moment.”  Howland leaned against the window. Through it, he could see the sunshine he was denied for days. It was too bright and though his skin did not burn, he sought to retract from the light. He shut his eyes.

“It is day,” Howland laughed, though mostly to himself.

“It is,” Catelyn agreed. She peered at him. “Will I be calling Maester Luwin for you?”

Howland shook his head. “I would not risk your involvement being known. Ned will come to his senses in due time and I to my strength with rest.” His mind ached. “I could swallow a field of poppies…” He muttered.

“I’ve never seen you this weak before.”  

Howland chuckled. “I do not make a habit of it.” He grasped onto the brick to steady himself. The world was spinning again. A minute, he thought. A minute of rest was all he needed to recover. He could rest the night away but for now, he needed a minute for the journey. “Take me to the nearest bed.”

“You shall get your rest,” Catelyn promise. She pressed her hand against his back. “Howland.”

The crannogman turned to her.

“You’ve made a great sacrifice for my son, thank you." Her fingers dug into his skin. "For that, I am truly sorry for what I am about to do.”

Howland was almost unable to respond. Catelyn pushed him through the opening with all her strength, but Howland caught her hand in time. The lady struggled to break free and for once, she had the advantage to do so. The two of them fought, grabbing and grasping at each other like mountain cats with the window baring their deaths.

“You treacherous snake!” Howland yelled. “Let go of me!”

Catelyn did not falter. “If it weren’t for you, this plague upon my house would never fall! If it weren’t for you, I would be the only Lady Stark! I would be happy!” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I have to do this, Lord Reed. This is fate,” She declared. “How else would you be here? At my son’s beckoning? _At my mercy_ if the gods did not will it so? I will never get another chance.”

Her madness must be empowering her might, for their strength was equal, if not losing in Howland’s regard. Her hand latched out to scratch his cheek and he responded with a strike in kind. Finally, Howland was able to latch onto her neck, but she would not fall on his strength alone. She grabbed his arm, and pushed them against the window, inviting either one or both to their downfalls. All it took was one more tackle against the wall for one of them to lose their grip.

In a minute, a body was seen falling to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN. CLIFFHANGER ALERT! WHO FELL? 
> 
> So this is what 19,000+ words look like. I think this is the longest chapter I've ever written. But I'm really excited because I have this series planned for 27 chapters. Then, we move onto the third series (the beginning of Game of Thrones/ Jon Arryn's death, etc.). A lot is going to happen in the next four chapters so be prepared. :)
> 
> Next chapter, we find out who fell. What happened to Jon and Robb? And the puzzle pieces coming together to lead to the War of Five Kings. And hopefully, answer some of the questions in the comments.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot heavy chapter today. There's still lots of sex and foreplay, but this part of the story is definitely coming to the end. God, I can't wait to start writing alongside the books. :)

The air was sharp as a canary’s trill, and the skies fared just as well. Their stable master, an aged alpha who was entering the realm of retirement and apathy, did not fight Robb on his request to ride alone. The old man warned them not to travel too far and to instruct the guards of their departure. That was the decree as of late. Lord Stark ordered a stricter regulation on all travel concerning Winterfell and demanded all citizens record any trips that extended past three miles from the fortress. For members of his house, Stark assigned guards.

The two did not fight the order—not after Lord Stark released Robb from his shackles. There was no punishment; not even a word of disapproval. He was uncharacteristically detached from the issue, opting to focus on his lover who remained unseen for weeks. Jon had urged a meeting with his mother, sometimes with tears dripping on his father's shirt, but his begging was brushed off for "pressing business." His only compensation was that Lord Stark seemed to allow his and Robb’s intimacy. The entire commune of Winterfell entered an unwritten oath of ignorance regarding the matter. No one spoke of it, and everyone looked away when a kiss was pecked, or a touch lingered.

Their peace would not last forever, but while Jon sought a more permanent solution, Robb had other plans. He slipped his hands underneath Jon’s shirt and pinched his nipples until they were hard as cherry seeds. He kissed Jon’s neck with leisure, pressing his hardened cock against Jon's voluptuous ass, moaning degradation as he did so. A few trees away, Desmond kept guard. He purposely turned a blind eye to Robb’s hands and how they undressed Jon’s form.

“Robb…”

“Hmm?” Robb answered as he finished off the last button. His teeth were scrapping against Jon’s skin, sucking his mark into his flesh. Jon closed his eyes.

“Father is ill,” he whispered—softly and secretively as the gods of wind transferring the first snow onto the lands.

Robb did not pause. Instead, he moved his mouth to reveal the bruise. Purple and pulsing like a beating heart. He gave Jon a soft kiss before sighing. “I know,” he purred, pleasant as a kitten wrapped in knits. He pulled Jon’s shirt off and kissed his shoulder. “It is a disease best treated with thorough attention. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Jon elbowed him lightly. He heard his lover laugh, which only made his pout firmer. “I am not joking." 

“Neither am I,” Robb jested. His fingers moved onto his pants—Jon so rarely wore them, and though Robb preferred the easy access of his dresses, he admitted there was a thrill that came with the extra effort. He dearly loved how well a pair of trousers framed his brother's bottom, how the seams tightened around his most fleshy form. “Your mother is with him. Surely he would have found a way to sort it out if it were dire.”

“Mother is not a god,” Jon snapped.

"No, he is a witch. One who has given us many blessings."

Jon rolled his eyes. “His magic has limitations.”

“I was not speaking of magic.” Jon could hear Robb undoing his laces. “But the most basic cure for any man.” His cock against Jon’s ass. His pants were on the verge of slipping to the ground; ironically, the only thing keeping them on was Robb’s pressed body. “A warm cunt and plump ass to empty out his load in, and a clear mind should follow.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “You are insufferable.”

Robb laughed. “You enjoyed it.” He slipped his fingers into Jon’s ass.

Jon frowns, his face a theatric counterpart to Robb’s amusement. “Maester Luwin says his symptoms are akin to a rut.”

Robb tried to recall his father’s behavior. The possessive gazes, the heated touches and ever-hardened cock desperate to sow its seed. “It’s similar,” Robb admitted, already tired of their conversation. It was a lovely day for fucking and not one to waste on talking.

Jon frowned. “What is it like?”

“A rut?” Robb asked playfully. He thought for a moment before answering. “It’s fucking shit," he answered. When he saw Jon's irritation, he shook his head and explained with wry amusement. "It feels like walking down the spiral staircases of hell while the walls close in on you. Your mind is focused and spiraling at the same time. All you want to do is pump your knot into the sweetest, sopping hole you can find until they're bred. Nothing else matters; you forget your name, your titles, who you are, because the only thing that resonates is the sound of a wet hole and drool dripping from an open mouth. And when you're finally inside that hole, nothing else matters because it's only you and your omega, joined together in the most horrible, blinding pleasure you can think of.”

Despite his earlier opposition, Jon moaned—just a little. “Maester Luwin worries that the condition will be permanent if a cure is not found. Not to mention the Neck will be left without a leader," Jon moaned. "I've gotten so many letters. It is essential for mother return to his lands soon…” Jon shuddered, though whether it was for the Neck’s future or Robb’s fingertips was a mystery.

“What else have you spoken to maester Luwin about?” Robb asked. Jon wondered if the older boy heard a word he said. The Stark heir pressed his hands against Jon’s stomach, soft and flat as always. He relaxed so that Jon’s pants slipped towards the bottom of his hips, revealing his ass.

Jon bit his lip. “He says it’s too soon to tell.” Jon felt Robb trail down his belly to the soft curls nestling on top of his quim. His pointer finger pressed against his clit before rubbing up and down his lips. “He told me to wait another week and I…ah!”

Robb pressed three fingers into his cunt. His fluids began to run down his thighs and stained the fabric of his clothes. Jon could feel his cock swell. Robb used his free hand to play with the cocklet, his head leisurely. “I want nothing more than to hold our child in my arms.” Robb was not lying. He dreamt of Jon’s swelling form often, and longed for the moment he could sink his cock deep into his womb, to be nursed by him after their child grew fat from a feeding. “We’d make beautiful babies.”

“They’d have the Stark look,” Jon mumbled. “No one would contest the blood that ran through their veins.”

Robb curled his fingers, both in good humor and as a warning. Jon arched his back. “Or the veins of their brothers and sisters.” Robb pushed him on his knees, admiring the way his ass bounced as he dropped to the floor. “Do not think for a second that I will rest until I’ve bred you dry.”

Jon whimpered when Robb pressed the head of his cock against his cunt. “Desmond…Robb, he’s so close. He could hear.”

“And what will he do?” Robb grunted out. He closed his eyes in pleasure as he pushed in another inch. Jon had grown looser as of late. His lower lips were plumper and fat poured into his hips and thighs. Each thrust was accompanied by a pulsing pressure that made every fuck more intense. “Father has turned a blind eye. My mother refuses to leave Bran’s bedside. The land is left to us, and I will sooner farm the North with bastards than allow your thighs to lock.”

Jon’s fingers clenched the ground, the crisp dirt felt heavenly against his burning skin. “Robb,” he hissed.

Robb pressed forward until he was completely buried inside Jon’s cunt. Jon dug his face into the grass and sobbed. His hole clenched and unclenched around the cock, inviting the older boy deeper so that he could milk him deep in his womb.

Despite Jon’s efforts to keep quiet, Robb was adamant about being heard. He seemed to relish in the risk; now, that he was already caught with his pants down, he wanted to be seen “fucking the best cunt in Winterfell” so that everyone knew he wasn’t putting Jon’s plump ass to waste. 

Robb grabbed his curls and lifted his face off the ground so that his staggered breathing and hapless moan could echo throughout the forest. He knew Desmond was listening. He wanted a show, but most of all, he wanted to punish the guards for keeping Jon away from him, all those years rutting pillows so that he wouldn’t sink his cock against Jon’s heat-drenched hole. Robb snapped his hips forward in a hard motion that forced Jon forward.  Each thrust hit Jon’s spot perfectly; he could feel his objection crumble like it was taking hits from giant’s sledgehammer.

“See, this is what we wanted. You took me in with such completion. Such shamelessness. How can they judge us for this? You are my womb to breed, my hole to plow and my wife to fuck. This is the way it should be.” Jon shook his ass to encourage his lover. “And how it will stay.”

If Desmond was truly going to turn the blind eye, Jon supposed he was left with no choice but to enjoy the wonderful, thick cock pounding into him.

“Robb!” Jon screamed out. “H-harder! Oh, please! Please!” 

Robb dug his fingers deep into Jon’s hips. He grunted as he sped up his thrust, making sure to go so deep, his cock was entering Jon’s womb. “We’ll have an alpha boy first,” Robb declared heavily. “To strengthen my opposition towards marriage.” Robb kissed the back of Jon’s neck. “And to have an irrefutable heir, in case they bend my knee by force. I'll have him legitimize on his birth bed.” Jon’s toes curled as Robb slowed down so that each thrust was more pronounced. “I imagined I’d have much to teach him about fucking omegas…and I’d use his mommy as an example.” Robb’s eyes gleamed. “Can you imagine? Your little boy watching you on your knees, your fingers would be knuckles-deep in your ass while you sucked my cock? I’d tell him that’s how omegas look when they’re satisfied. How he’s supposed to fuck them so thoroughly that their holes are puffy and gaping when they’re done.”

Jon’s mouth dropped to let out a screeching wail. He came all over the ground. While Jon slumped forward, Robb kept rolling his hips inside Jon’s oversensitive body. He relished in Jon’s fucked-out whimpers, making it clear that it was all too much to handle. More balls slapped against Jon’s ass at a brisker pace, and that thick, gorgeous cock started pumping to its original speed. He shoved himself as deep as he possibly could before coming deep inside his womb.

Jon sobbed as Robb’s eyes closed in pleasure. When he opened them, he could saw a pair of eyes staring at them in shock. The guard quickly turned away.

Robb chuckled. He slumped to Jon’s side, who was on the verge of drifting to sleep. Robb kissed his unresponsive lips.

“Sleep well. When we return home,” Robb declared. “We are due a repeat performance.”

The young heir stared at Winterfell, the impressive fort was a mere shadow in the distance. Jon’s eyes closed but his remained wide and focused on the lands that would soon be his.

***

Their return to Winterfell was marked by a scream. They watched as dozens of men and women circle around a spot near the tower, aided by the declarations that someone had fallen. The words prompted Robb to dash to the crowd. Jon understood why, and he, too, broke out into a sprint. The people were swarming around their siblings’ tower, where Bran Stark rested during his recovery and whom Catelyn had imprisoned herself in since.

Robb’s legs were longer and he reached the destination first. “Step aside!” He shouted. The people stepped out of the way, though Jon, even at a distance, could see the pity that resided in their eyes. As soon as Jon arrived, however, Robb rushed out to reach him.

“Stay back,” he ordered Jon. His eyes are heavy with horror. He blocked Jon’s passageway. “Jon, please,” he begged.

Chills ran down Jon’s spine.

“Who is it?”

“Jon, step back. You should not—”

“Who is it!” Jon shouted. He pushed Robb aside and despite his slight form, was able to make his way to the front. Robb followed; his hands lunged out to Jon’s eyes but was too late to stop Jon from setting his sights on the figure.

“Mother!” Jon screamed. The omega reached out for him but Robb held him tight against his chest. No matter how much Jon struggled, Robb refused to budge. His brother’s sobs began to soak his shoulder; a wetness he took with stride as long as he could shield his lover from the horror.

Before them, Howland Reed laid on the ground, body limp and limbs awry in all directions. Blood dripped from his mouth like saliva and gashes and cuts marked his golden skin. His forehead was bleeding on the ground. He looked—

“He’s still breathing!” Cried one of the guards. Jon did not bother to check who; the only person Jon cared about was his mother. He elbowed Robb so hard that the older boy swore something would sprain. Robb watched his younger brother run to the body. Between the spaces in the crowd, he could make out that the guards were lifting him onto a wooden plank and sheet.

“Get out of the way!”

The crowd dispersed to provide a passageway for the men. Robb sighed in relief as they headed to maester Luwin’s chambers. He traveled to Jon but to his shock, Jon pushed him away.

“Jon—”

“I am going to my mother.” Jon glared at him. “Do not stop me again.” He turned his back on him, an image that disturbed Robb.

“Jon!” Robb called out. Jon turned around. The heir rushed over to cradle his cheek. “Jon, I was trying to protect you.” He tried to kiss him but Jon rejected him just as easily as he did the first time.

Tears welled up in Jon's eyes—unfallen by the will of rage. “Mark my words, Robb. The only person who will require protection is the one responsible for this crime. If your intention is to provide her protection, then do not follow me.” Without another word, Jon raced over to accompany his mother. Robb stayed where he was, unable to ignore the accusation laced in his words.

***

Lord Stark charged towards his eldest omega in a manner befitting a war stallion, and he was no less fearsome than a dragon. Jon was immediately engulfed in an embrace. The boy stiffened, but as soon as he felt his father’s warmth and sensed his undeniable distress, he relaxed at once.

“Father…you’ve recovered,” he declared in relief. He pulled away to look into his father’s eyes, clear for the first time in days. He hugged him once more. “The gods are good,” Jon sobbed. He was not sure if he could withstand this tragedy alone.

“I thought you were lost. I went out to search for you,” Ned confessed. He was shaking. Jon had never seen him so afraid. “Howland was in our room—” Panic overwhelmed him. “I left him there. I trapped him. Jon, he was trying to escape my madness—”

“Father, we cannot lose ourselves to despair,” Jon reasoned. “This is not your fault.”

“He begged to leave,” Ned recalled. “I remember—he was trying to help me but I…I ignored him. If he was harmed trying to escape—”

“Then we will catch the assailant responsible,” Jon declared. “This was not an accident. I know it. He would want justice.” He would prefer vengeance, but Jon figured his father was more amenable to the former. “It is no coincidence that your mind has returned. It is our duty to find the villain responsible before mother wakes.” Jon clenched his fist. His mother would recover. He was sure of it. Jon kissed his father’s hands whose nails were bleeding into his flesh. “And he will wake.”

Jon’s urging distracted Ned’s guilt. The Lord of Winterfell nodded. 

“Who told you I disappeared?” Jon asked. “The maids and guards should have known I was at my lessons. Someone wanted him alone.” 

Jon waited for an answer. Instead, he received a face of recognition resembling rage in its purest form. He was pushed aside to pave the way for his father’s march. The Warden of the North stormed off to the tower where Howland fell, passing Robb without a word. Jon refused to look at his brother as they followed their father up the stairs.

“Jon, what is happening?”

Jon said nothing.

“Jon, speak!”

Jon turned around. “We are seeking justice for my mother.”

Robb’s eyes widened. While Jon had an inkling, it was Robb who realized who their father was heading towards. He shouted for his father to stop but Lord Stark paid his eldest no mind. Before long, the two boys gave chase to their lord, one acting as a sword and another a shield. Ned swung opened the door to Bran’s room like the piercings of a thousand thunders. Robb reached out to stop him, but Jon blocked his way.

“Get out of my way,” Robb growled. His order was met with narrow eyes and contemptuous hissing.

“She needs to pay.”

Robb watched, powerless to stop his father from grabbing his mother’s arm and throwing her against the wall. Catelyn gasped.

“Ned—!”

Lord Stark’s hand wrapped around her throat. He did not tighten but his fingers twitched with the pure righteousness of the sensation.

“You did this,” Ned accused. “You tried to kill Howland.” 

Catelyn spoke fast—a moment’s hesitation would have her lungs crushed under the weight of Ned’s pain. “Ned, I did not, I swear!”

“She is lying!” Jon yelled. His eyes were glowing, a furious storm replaced his sweet greys. “I know she is; no one else in the castle wished mother harm.”

“I needed his help!” Catelyn denied. Desperation clung to her every word. “Our son was dying! He was in pain and I needed Howland's assistance for it. Look!”

Ned froze in his place. In the midst of his grief, he had forgotten about his youngest omega. The liege lord glanced over at Bran’s resting body. True enough, the pink on his cheek was vibrant with health and his breathing was heavenly paced—a relieving change to his once staggered gasps and flaxen complexion. Ned returned to Catelyn.

Riding on his patience, Catelyn continued her explanation.

“Howland became sick.” Lady Stark told him. “The spell he used to save our son tried his body. I could—I could see an illness take him when he was finished. He was half-dead. He could barely walk.” Catelyn told them. She did not fight Ned’s callous fingers and instead clutched onto his sympathies. It was her last fight, to paint the picture of weakened Howland, made delusional by his wicked spells that he had to clutch onto the stones for support. They could imagine him stumbling down the halls, faltered by a single missed step—and falling to his doom because of it. “But I did not hurt him, and for once, I had no desire to. How could I harm the man who saved my son’s life?” 

Jon bristled with disapproval. “Yet you allowed Bran’s savior to walk through these halls unaided? Perhaps you were hoping he would crack his head on the headboard of your husband’s bed?”

“Jon,” Robb pleaded. “Let my mother speak.”

Catelyn paid the children no heed. For her eyes were on Ned, the holder of her life, in every literal way. “He was not sure if your mind would recover. He was terrified. His lands, his life, would all be forfeited if he did not escape your hold.” And she sounded tearful, a touch below frantic but far above frightened. “He traded my gratitude for an emission. I was to prepare a horse and coin for his journey.”

Ned’s mind traveled to back to the haze of his lunacy. Moved by his own madness, e released her. She dropped to the ground, savoring her freedom.

 “Father, you cannot believe her!” Jon glared at her. “Her lies burn as bright as the fire in her hair. Mother loves you; he would not be so cruel as to abandon you while ill. This wicked bitch is siphoning your guilt to fill her deceit!" He took a step further towards her. For once, Catelyn shrunk under his gaze. "Given the opportunity, she would gladly take the title of murderer."

“There is a horse waiting outside the castle. I had the stable boy prepare one with rations and means to travel. Exactly as I promised Lord Reed,” Catelyn provided, hoping the evidence was enough. “You can send your guards to check.”

“She is biding time for a trial,” Jon insisted spitefully. He watched her, and all he could see was the demons writhing within her form. “If we allow her to roam free, we give her the opportunity to turn her lies into truth. Her only witness is her victim. What is to stop her from trying to silence both for good?”   

Catelyn released a soft sob. Her eyes blinked and tears fell down her face. She was beautiful and Jon’s chest tightened as the horrid woman drew unearned sympathies from the men he loved.

Robb clenched his fist. He was unable to keep silent any longer. “Are you not biased yourself?”

Jon turned to face his lover.

Robb walked up to him. “Jon, you are mad with grief and you taking out your pain on my mother.”

Jon reacted as if he’d been slapped. “You would defend her? After her crimes?”

“What crimes? You are not even going to humor the thought that she is telling the truth?” Robb asked, angry for having been abandoned and indignant after watching his mother been brutalized. “You would let an innocent woman hang on a suspicion formed by spite.”

“She is not innocent,” Jon stressed. “I know she did it, Robb. Your love is blinding you.”

“And your hatred deafens you. To reason.” Robb sighed. “You told me yourself that you feared for father’s mind. Are you saying your mother would not have felt the same, especially when he held his life in his hands?”

The reminder deepened the agony on their father’s heart, and though his face returned to its natural stoicism, Jon feared the worst. This melancholy will eat him, Jon panicked. The guilt will fester until his father was no more than a shell of himself. He would not let this woman’s lies ruin his family and he would certainly not let her turn his loved ones against him. Without warning, Jon marched towards Catelyn Tully. Before anyone could stop him, the bastard  struck her with the back side of his hand.

Many horrors occurred in that tower, but on that day, a crime was followed by another. A bastard had struck a lady, and even in the North, that was a crime worth a hanging. 

“I will never forgive you for this,” Jon swore. His nails dug into his hands and the blood bled onto the floor. The room smelled of copper and the acidity in his voice smoked the room. Robb’s heart pounded. He reached out to his lover, but his skin was cold to touch. “I wait until my mother wakes and the truth slits your throat. You may spill your story to all your sycophants but the North remembers, Lady Stark. They remember the love my mother holds for my father. They remember his loyalty just as vividly as they recall my father’s honor. Mother would never betray father. He would never leave him alone to rot in his mind. I know that as well as I know the feel of your son's cock.” Jon released his flesh from the tendrils of his talons.

Jon turned to his father. He replaced the bitterness on his tongue with the sweet flavors of sugar and honey. “Father, do not listen to a single syllable from her snake’s tongue. You could burn the north’s fields into a dessert and mother would sooner cut off his tongue than hate you. Your wellbeing has always been his priority. He would not just leave!"

Lord Stark would move the heavens and earth to be so confident of Howland’s love, but memories of Howland’s reluctance resurfaced. Jon was not there. He did not hear the way Howland begged to be released. He did not know how rough of a lover his father was, how he forced his cock to the hilt of his mother’s cunt and filled him with so much seed, it spilled out of his mouth. Ned could not believe in such forgiveness, for it would be a lifetime and a half before he considered clemency for himself.

The world was spinning around Jon. He was surrounded by poison chalices, from his lover’s infidelity to the murderer trembling like a bitten doe in the corner. He would lose himself if he dwelled any longer. “Enjoy yourself, Lady Stark. That is the last time I shall call you such,” Jon pardoned. He walked away to be alone, away from those who might try and sway him from vengeance. 

Catelyn watched him leave until the door shut. She touched her cheek, and though the redness faded and the throb became mute, she could not remove herself from the hit. The physical impact meant nothing to her. It was the political substance that struck her core.

Any bastard would have been flogged at once and hanged twice for such a crime. Jon Snow had walked away after striking his father’s wife. He escaped without consequence. There was no immediate repercussion and there would be none in eternal time.

Catelyn Stark had held onto her title like her last piece of bread during a famine. It protected her and brought her comfort. Now, she was naked in unknown territory and the law of men would no longer protect her. Lady Stark. The title she struggled to sustain was little more than ink on parchment, secreted away in one of the Citadel's many drawers.

Lord Stark watched her and in a low tone, announced there would be a trial in a fortnight, with or without Howland’s awakening.

“You will be under watch," he informed, dull and cold.

Catelyn shook her head. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes. “For your mistress’s protection, I assume?” Her voice was soft but scathing. She sounded like a ruined woman.

“And yours,” Ned stated. “I cannot foresee the extent of Jon’s anger.”

Catelyn choked back a laugh, lodged in the ridiculousness of the statement. “You would turn the other cheek if I was on the master's bedspread, fighting for my life,” she accused. "Perhaps, I should have fallen again. It is the only time I've ever felt your sympathies for me." 

Lord Stark did not answer. “You will be given all the luxuries that a lady of your standing is awarded.” He glanced over at Bran. “You will not be forbidden from seeing the children. If nothing else, I expect there to be little change from your daily routine.”

“Fine,” Catelyn agreed, though she had little choice in the matter. “The gods are good. I will face the court as I face the trial in this room. With the words of an honest woman.”

The Stark matriarch turned to her son. She clung to his sleeve and Robb, in response squeezed her hand in comfort.

Ned watched the scene. His eyes softened, but they were still unrecognizable.

“I will check to see if your story is true,” he told her. His voice remained aloof and formal as if their five children never existed and their marriage a dismal daydream. Catelyn’s heart lurched at the dismissal. “A trial will be set for the attempt, and if he does not awaken…” Ned’s face remained cold. “I will have you tried as a murderer.” 

Ned waited for Catelyn to express her understanding. The woman nodded and got up from the ground. Either out of concern for her wellbeing, or a lasting confirmation she would stay, he waited until she was adjusted. He watched his eldest son help her to the edge of Bran’s bed. Finally, Ned left her.

Alone, Catelyn clung to Robb’s sleeve and begged for his belief. “Robb, no matter the loathing in my heart for Lord Reed, I would never harm him—not after what he’s done for Bran. Look at him.” Catelyn reached over to wipe the hair from Bran’s face. He was well, better than he’d been all week. Robb was relieved to see that despite the tragedy, there was one mercy to smile upon. “I finally have my son back. How could anyone who prays to the Mother commit such a horror against their son’s savior?”

Robb listened to his mother and the words were sound. People were nuanced stories, not one-sided poems. Jon may have seen his mother as the villain, but to Robb, she was his mother. She loved him with every fiber of her being, she kissed his feet when he was a baby and laughed when he laughed and cried when he cried. There was an inkling in his head that told him that his views were just as false, for tapestries told the stories of the seamstress, not the truth. He wanted to believe his mother. He wanted Lord Reed to awaken, and tell them all that he fell ill from the spellcasting as his mother said.

“I believe you,” Robb promised her. “We must pray for Lord Reed’s awakening.”

Catelyn tensed, and Robb prayed for an explanation.

“Lord Reed bares me no love as well.” She trembled as she held onto Robb and her skin whitened with fear. “What if…what if he uses this to his advantage? What if he claims I pushed him?”

Robb was not sure how to respond. He would not put it past the crannogman to do such a thing, given his loathing for his mother. The man was renowned for his trickery on the battlefield, and was his father’s heart, not worthier than any crown? Lady Stark’s lineage would protect her from true death, but banishment was still within the realm of possibility. Or house arrest, or even force her to join a sept.

On the other hand, Jon’s mother had always been good to him and his siblings—loved him as his own, in fact. Robb was fond of the lord, and he doubts the man could be so cruel to Ned’s children as to rid them of their mother.

“He would not do such a thing,” Robb assured.

“You don’t know that,” Catelyn told him. Her eyes were like steel. “He’s done much worse to me.”

Robb sighed. “Things are different now. You are the mother of father’s children.”

“I was your mother, and a child when I was first attacked by his witchcraft. I threw myself on top of a tower and had I died, that man would have taken you from your crib and raised you as his own. He would do the same for all my children and danced on my grave while he nursed my sons.” Catelyn shook his head. “Lord Reed has wished me death a thousand times, and I, him," Catelyn confessed without shame. "Perhaps, this will be our final fight. Two serpents biting each other’s tails until the poisons leave a dead wreath. He will have his vengeance after all.” 

Robb kissed her on the cheek. “I believe you,” he told her. “I know you did not do this. And I will make sure you never face the fate of steel.”

Catelyn lets out a small, disbelieving scoff. "No, I will be made a tale of caution to all the wives who dare disobey their husbands' whims. Banished, forgotten, and unloved." She smiled sadly for her son as she held him in her arms. “You are a good, honorable boy.” She kissed him again. “I beg you. Pray on the Seven for me tonight. It will provide me much comfort to know that the gods have heard your pleas.”

Rob swore to, though it barely carried any weight in his mouth. All his life, he prayed to the Old Gods and the New, hardly caring if they listened or not. It was his own ministrations that decided his fate, not the workings of spirits and ghosts. 

***

Jon held a contrasting view.

Robb found him in front of the weirwood tree, stiff as stone and almost blue from the cold. He must have been praying for hours, Robb thought. A sudden bout of annoyance washed over his body. Jon’s piety was usually not a concern, but Robb found the image of Jon shivering away to satisfy some unseen force more frustrating as of late.

Robb moved behind Jon and pulled his back against his chest. Jon said nothing, which prompted Robb to use his larger form to wrap around his brother’s body, and soon Jon was trapped between his thighs. Jon resisted through weakened apathy. Robb was prepared to fuck him without a response, but he liked weathering down Jon’s resolve. Loved it when Jon’s cunt swallowed his fingers while cursing his perversity. Robb’s hands slipped underneath his top and fondled his breasts.

Jon’s body was helpless against his brother’s advances. He started to moan and bit his lip to manage his control. “Stop it,” Jon hissed. He tried to escape, but Robb’s hold was firm.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” Robb responded. His fingers pinched Jon’s hard cherries, teasing them until the heat in his loins roughened his touches. Robb focused exclusively on Jon’s tits, groping the mounds until they were swollen and tender. Jon’s thighs unconsciously parted, welcoming Robb’s advances without wanting to. “Come to our bed so I can be warm with you.”

Jon’s purrs rumbled against Robb and his cock leaked against Jon’s backside. The omega’s knees bent, and before he could moan, his hands chased after his lips to keep himself silent.

“What’s the matter?” Robb teased, his tone vicious enough to border mockery. “You’ve never kept your prayers silent while I worshipped your body.” He kissed Jon’s neck, but Jon shook his head.

Robb slipped one of his hand in between Jon’s thighs while he fondled the boy’s chest. “Would you like me to pray with you?” He rubbed Jon’s hardening cock.

Jon closed his eyes. He dropped his hands to speak. “And what would you be praying for?”

“Your mother’s recovery, your health…” A litter of curly haired pups and warm womb for them to reside in.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” 

Robb stopped moving. “What sort of question is that?”

Jon remained stoic; he did not leave Robb’s embrace, but he was relieved of his arousal. “You seemed adamant about protecting my mother’s attacker.”

Robb released Jon. He watched the boy get up and straightened up his wardrobe.

“I was upholding the law."

Jon scoffed. "As if you've ever cared about the law when you were fucking me."

"I believe in honor and justice, Jon, and sometimes, we must rely on the courts to house such principles. Our love hurts no one. But there is a victim in this case, and it will do no one any favors to condemn my mother before we know the truth," Robb declared, more gritted than he'd like to admit. "Her story is sound. Did you not hear that the guards found the horse?”

“She planted it there to confirm her alibi. You know how clever your mother can be.” Jon scowled. “Look at her. She is already turning us against each other!”

“You are doing that!” Robb denied. “I love you, Jon, and the hells will turn to heavens before I let you go. If my mother is indeed the assailant, I will make sure she is punished. But the evidence is neither for or against her. She deserves a fair trial. It is…it is the right thing to do.”   

Jon shut his eyes so hard, he swore he would be blind with tears. “She does not deserve a platform to distribute her lies.”

Jon’s callous disregard towards his family’s honor suddenly had Robb seeing red, especially as reason became scarce in their argument. “If that is what you believe, then perhaps we should put father on trial in her stead. Or even Lord Reed himself.” Robb’s eyes narrowed. “After all, even if this my mother’s doing,  you cannot the retaliation was long-awaited. And father has done a better job fighting winter than playing mediator.”  

Jon wanted to slap him until his face bled on the grass. Instead, he turned his heel.

Robb, recognizing his mistake, closed his eyes and sighed. “Jon.”

Jon kept on walking.

“Jon, please. Listen to me.” Robb ran after him. “Maybe…have you considered that this is the will of the gods?”

Jon turned to him in disbelief. “How could the gods want this for my family?”

Robb sighed. “Father’s madness, your mother’s fall, maybe this is what we needed to take the throne of Winterfell. What else would thin the blood oath our father has to these lands but the loss of someone he held dear.” Robb walked up to Jon and wrapped his arms around him. Jon shook in his embrace. “If-when your mother recovers, father may finally take his leave of this place and abdicate his seat to me. We could finally rule together. I know we planned on it happening later upon a newfound reputation, but this is our chance.”

Jon took a step back. “Is this how you want to become a lord?” He accused. “Preying on our father’s weakness?”

Robb shook his head. “You know that was not my intention.”

“According to you, I know nothing. Too blinded by my anger," Jon mocked.

“Be rational,” Robb ordered. “We need a trial if we hope to see justice."

“Your mother is a lady. She is father’s wife and the daughter of a liege lord! The odds are stacked in her favor.” Jon glared at him. “You said that if she is found responsible, you will be by my side. Well, what would you do to make me safe? She won’t give up on guilty sentence. If anything, she will respond in kind.”

“Jon,” Robb growled. “She is my mother. I care for Lord Reed and all he is to you, but he is still father’s...” The words died on his throat.

“Mistress?” Jon finished for him, angrily. “I remind you that my mother has and always been father’s true wife. And I will be damn before I let that usurper claim the title through blood!”

Jon departed the godswoods. When he finally arrived outside the gates, he waited. He stood there until he was sure Robb would not follow him and fought his tears when there were no footsteps to be heard.

***

Turned the next morning, the castle was divided by the machinations of the crime. Some people were in support of Lady Stark and viewed her situation as disgraceful for a person of her station. They glanced at the guards with distaste and even casted a scowl or two at Lord Stark who issued such provisions. Though Catelyn Stark lacked their northern mannerism, she had always been fair to her people. She dealt with her situation with a certain stoicism that the North appreciated. Even Howland’s supporters found her tale plausible, especially the maids who heard Howland’s pleas for release; some thought Catelyn Stark a bit of hero for going against Lord Stark to save her son.

Others, however, saw the incident as the first of many long-awaited retaliations. Howland Reed would survive, they said, and though Catelyn Stark’s titles would protect from the law, it would not protect her from the gods’ favorite. For over a decade, the lingering lunacy that latched onto Catelyn’s mind like a parasite was dormant, and it was only a matter of time before it resurfaced to a new beast. If Howland was as weak as Catelyn Stark claimed, then why wouldn’t she, in renewed madness, take advantage of the chance to vanquish her greatest foe? Amongst her southern allies, there were some who believed her responsible despite her claims. They said she was always smart—the smartest of her siblings—she would be the sort to gain sense in time to establish evidence.

Robb tried his hardest to shield their siblings from making a decision. Jon only aided out of fear. He lost one brother to that mad woman, he would not do so again. Nonetheless, their loved ones felt the brunt of their schism. Jon retreated to Arya’s room the night of the fall and refused to join them for dinner as well. He played parlor games with Sansa and read to Bran whenever the two were out of their mother’s sight. Robb was a ghost in the castle, seeking his teachers for tutelage—anything to avoid his lover. Things turned a boiling point when Robb’s training partner lost focus and dropped both his jaw and sword at a sight behind the heir. Robb turned around to see the distraction; upon doing so, his blood boiled with rage.

Jon was walking alongside their youngest sister, dressed in what could have called a dress but in reality was a sheet of ice someone decided to stitch together with thread. His entire body was on display for every pervert in Winterfell to fuck their fists into. He willed himself to ignore him, which seemed possible until his brother decided to bend down and show off the slit of his bare ass cheeks and flash a pair of pink lips in the process.

Half the alphas in the courtyard stopped what they were doing and stared. Having enough of this insult, Robb dropped his sword and stormed towards his brother. Jon protested for a split second before he was dragged to the nearest room.

Two boys, either they were servants or stable workers or both, looked at them in fright. One was in a partial state of undressed when Robb dismissed them.

“M’lord—f”

“I said leave!” Robb growled at them.

The boys scurried off.

Robb returned his attention to Jon, who turned his cheek in childish rebellion. Up close, Robb could drink in the filth of him. Jon was gaining weight all over his tiny body. His thighs were thick with promise and honey, and his ass, already a baiting bulb of debauchery, was fattened until it stretched out his dress. His waist was skinny and delicate, perfect for a hand to cradle on, and just as horribly Robb longed for the day he could watch that flat stomach swell.

Robb grabbed Jon’s ass and pressed fingerprints inside until there were blue bruises all over his skin. The flesh spilled out of his hands like dough. In doing so, his dress fell off his shoulder, revealing more bare flesh. Robb made a beastly noise at the sight. His brother was baiting a rape. He grabbed Jon by the throat and pushed him against the wall. Then he kissed him so roughly Jon forgot to fight back. Instead, he leaned into the kiss, opened his mouth and allowed his jiggling ass to vibrate against Robb’s thick thighs.

Jon’s tasted like strawberries and Robb wanted to slather his senses in jam. Rightfully, his instincts sensed a trap.

“What is this?” Robb gasped out when he pulled away.

Jon tilted his head and took his back off the wall. He walked forward so that their chests were touching. 

“Did you miss me, dear brother?” Jon asked sweetly. Pressed against him, Robb could feel every curve and angle he wrapped himself raw over the night before.

“I did,” Robb confessed.

“Good.”

Robb leaned in for another kiss, but Jon, the sly thing, fled his arms and skipped to the exist. Robb ran after him and pulled at his dress to keep him from leaving. A tear was heard; a tear that resulted in turning the shreds of fabric into mere rags glued against Jon’s skin.

Upon his second capture, Jon was more resilient. He rejected Robb’s kisses this time, and no longer shivered from his touches. His eyes were light as a cat’s glow.

Robb punched the wall. Jon could taste the blood in the air. His heartstrings tightened but he remained unresponsive.

“Tell me what this game is,” Robb demanded.

Jon stared at his older brother with a wry smile. “There is no game.” Jon played with his shirt—a habit he knew drew Robb insane for it often predated a languid lovemaking session. “I am about to go on a ride with Arya around Winterfell. You interrupted my plans.”

Robb could have moved the Mountain with the amount of indignation he felt. “You would go outside dressed like this?”

Jon smiled. “Is there an issue, brother?”

“You are mine,” Robb growled. “I will not have you parading around like some harlot, waiting for someone to throw coins in your favor. I won’t allow it.”

"Perhaps I could use the coin to fill my quim; it has been rather empty."

"You belong to me," Robb repeated. "I won't take another word of that. Not even in jest."

“As of yesterday, I belong to no one.”

Robb felt the climb of a savage devil on his chest, clawing out his heart and eating it in front of him. “You don’t mean that,” he said, mostly to convince himself. “You don’t.”

Jon softened, just for the moment, before regaining his composure.

“I don’t,” he admitted, much to Robb’s sanity and relief. “But I could.”

Robb tensed again.

Jon stood up straighter, and though he did not match his brother’s height, he was every bit a force to be reckoned. “I love you, a thousand falls will never change that.” Jon reached out to grab the back of Robb’s head. He lifted himself up so that their foreheads touched. The two of them breathed in each other’s air until their heartbeats became one. “But I am going to remind you what you risk losing if you continue down this path.” He made one last show of grinding his body against Robb. He wanted his brother to linger on the memory of every curve and angle, to think about the inside of his thighs and the softness of his lips when he went to bed at night, alone, with nothing but his recollections to fondle himself to. This was his punishment as well, but he would take it in stride.

Robb’s erection was bulging and hot against his cock, Jon let go. Robb was heaving for more. He tried to hold onto Jon but the boy escaped him. “I will get a coat,” Jon offered. “The weather is too cold to go out like this.” He paused at the door. “But inside the castle is warm, and I do not have the energy to remove so many layers as I used to.”

Robb waited a moment, before carelessly shoving his hand into his pants and releasing his erection. He tried desperately to recreate the feeling of Jon’s warm cunt, but all he had was his own callous hand. He wanted Jon’s plush lips and tiny tongue and tight, wet quim. His efforts were interrupted when a guard arrived, catching Robb red-handed. The young man was taken back, and more than a little frightened by what he witnessed. He heard a rumor that some guards were flogged for interrupting such private means or punished as a form to keep silence. Fortunately, the heir was too frustrated to care about his reputation.

“What?” He half-yelled as he returned his cock back to his britches.

The boy, shaking from the aggression, declared that a visitor was waiting for him by the gate. He said he was here for Jon Snow. “He requested you. Said it was a private matter.”

“Why does he wish to speak to me if it’s about Jon?” Robb walked towards the entrance regardless.

“He did not say, but, well…”

“What?”

“He, um, he is an alpha.” 

Robb’s eyes narrowed. Of course, he was. Robb was angrier than ever, he could use a distraction in the form of a beating. This alpha would not leave unscathed.

***

“I did not want to alarm suspicions by declaring my true purpose. I knew any matter relating to your brother would catch your attention.”

“Or my father’s,” Robb said, more rueful than he meant to sound. Nonetheless, the young heir poured Ramsay Bolton a cup of water. The two had secreted away to his room when Ramsay greeted him. He said he had urgent business to discuss private and declared his presence not to be known.

Robb obeyed and ordered his servants' avoidance from his quarters.

"I am glad that is not the case."

“You came at a good time. There is unrest in my family.” Robb handed him his goblet. “Pardon my lack of refreshment. I only keep water in my room.”

“Water is fine,” Ramsay declared. “Even if I was to face your father, I figured any man who loved his brother with such fervor would not miss a chance to ridicule his suitor.”   

Robb chuckled despite the cloud on his mood. Though the comment was appreciated, it only reminded Robb of the tumultuous times ahead of him. Searching a distraction, he asked, “What is this urgent business, Ramsay? You've come a long way.”

"The wine now looks favorable." Robb gave him a look of disapproval. Ramsay sighed; he put down his cup. “A grave matter.”

As if there weren’t enough of those already. “Is this regarding Theon’s engagement?”

“No,” Ramsay answered. “Although, one could argue otherwise. This is a matter that affects the whole North.”

Robb frowned, and with his silence, Ramsay continued. “As you are aware, several weeks ago, my father and brother sent me away to be fostered. Originally, I had thought the matter was related to my feelings for Theon.” The word 'feelings' had an odd effect on Ramsay, who seemed to say the word as if it tasted like gravel. “I was wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"I traveled back to win back their favor, or at least, convince them to let me remain in my ancestral home. I did not let my arrival be known, for fear they would not let me enter. the gates so I snuck in. They were not aware of my presence.”

“I see.” Robb found himself leaning in. “And what happened?"

Ramsay's face was devoid of any humor. “I went to my brother’s bedroom and overhead he and my father speak about reclaiming the north, a coup upon your house. They talked about gaining allies and how they needed more time to gather an army. I believe that is why he proposed to Theon.” Ramsay spoke lowly as if a spy rested right under their noses. "They negotiated ships in his dowry. Warships."

“An armada,” Robb concluded. It made sense. “Did he say who were his allies."

Ramsay shook his head. “Just that they were few, and waiting to strike when he wished. I do not think he has the numbers though,” Ramsay noted. “My father is a clever man. I believe he is waiting for the union between my brother and Theon to complete itself before he can proposition more houses."

"Betraying my father means gaining the king's wrath. His army will seek order. They must know this. There might be a bigger play at hand than just the North."

"I thought as well."

Robb took in every detail like a drop in the desert. “Are you sure about this?”

Ramsay hesitated, before nodding. “My father and brother sent me away because they knew where my loyalties lay. I am a northerner, and though this betrayal may cost me my blood, I refused to let it cost me my honor.”

“You are a true friend.” Robb thanked him. “I should consult with my father on this matter.” 

Ramsay frowned. “May I speak freely, Robb? As a friend?”

Robb raised an eyebrow. “You may.” After a moment, he added, “You do not have to request permission.”

Ramsay’s lips quirked. “Old habits.” He put his cup on the table. “I am a bastard. And while I know your father is a fair man, I also know that a trial must be had if my claims are made public. All you have is the word of a bastard. One could counter that I am aiming for ascension in the Dreadfort,” Ramsay reminded. "For now, we will merely have them sinking further into the shadows, out of our grasp."

Robb could hear the flashbacks echoing in his ear. Everything that was spoken since yesterday, from ‘What is to stop Lord Reed from lying?’ to ‘The trial will be rigged in Lady Stark’s favor!’ was played again and again by the shrills of his mind’s loudest bards. The remainder of a bastard’s worth against a trueborn son was disheartening and heavy, but more than ever, it was necessary. Robb found his eyes wider than ever before, and the sight was blinding.

“You are right,” Robb declared. “We must first gather proof. Have you spoken to Theon?”

Ramsay nodded. “I caught up with him on the road to warn him. He is traveling with his sister to Winterfell as we speak.”

Robb sighed in relief. “Until then, we must be discreet. Keep an eye on our allies and potential enemies.” He grabbed some spare clothes for Ramsay out of his dresser. “There is a spare room located in the servant's quarters near mine’s and…Jon’s.” Robb shook his longing out of his thoughts. “It is clean and unused. With it, you can stay and keep out of sight. We will declare you a messenger whose leg became lame on the trip.”

"What will you tell your father?"

Robb shook his head. “As long as we have time, I will hold off on informing my father of any details. He is…not well. A great sorrow has passed over Winterfell.”

“I apologize.” Ramsay paused. “What do you mean by burden?”

 Robb wondered if he was in any position to speak of the matter without bias. To the best of his ability, he gave only the facts. “Lord Reed fell from one of our towers. He survived but his condition lays between fatal and recovery. There are conflicting statements as to who are responsible.” 

Ramsay, not surprisingly, asked if there were suspects.

“Yes,” Robb answered coolly despite how his knuckles turned white around his goblet. “My mother.”

Ramsay was taken back. “I see.” He finished his water. “Well, at least my news has not made that situation worse.”

Robb wondered if he should laugh or frown; he chose to be grateful the bastard was not choosing sides or lending opinions. He heard enough of that from the gossip.

“I shall send for food. You must be famished.”

Ramsay thanked him, but not before he paused to beg discretion. “I know this will not come as a surprise, but I must insist on the absolute secrecy of my presence. If not that, then a careful eye on your ravens. I have on good authority that a spy is within your ranks.”

That came of no surprise; Robb was sure of a dozen spies from all sorts of houses in his home. Most were harmless, maids and merchants from other northern house who wished to catch up on the latest gossip. Robb was about to agree when Ramsay insisted again.

“Robb, I do not say this with humor.” Ramsay licked his already glistening lips. The man had a smile that was always yellow and beastly, and lips that were full but savage. “The way my family made it sound…this is no ordinary scout.” Ramsay grabbed his shoulder and squeezed in a friendly manner. “You must choose who you trust very wisely. Even your brother may become your worst enemies.”

The revelation should have forced Robb to respond in many ways—disbelief, maybe even outrage from the possibility, fear, or overzealous to prove him right or wrong—but instead, Robb was overcome with unsettling sort of calm. "And who do you suppose I should trust? You?"

Ramsay pretended to be insulted. "Robb, I am risking my loved one's lives for the North! I—"

Ramsay watched as the heir’s facial expression transform into something unreadable. Now, it was the Snow’s turn to be uneased.

“How long will you continue this charade?” Robb asked.

“Pardon?” Ramsay asked, reverting back to formalities the second his act was hit.

Robb continued his interrogation. “How long do you think I will wear the companion’s mask to your fool?” He came closer to Ramsay, and the beast in the bastard was biting at him to act. “I allow you to call me by my name because we are friends. Friends trust each other. Trust,” Robb stressed. “Requires a certain level of honesty.”  

Ramsay did not say anything at first. He contemplated his next move with the precision of a hawk before his mouth twisted into a nasty smile that was bone-chilling and perfectly fitted to his face.

“Well, I see the little lord has more hair on his balls than I expected.” Ramsay dropped his shoulders. “When did you figure it out?”

“I was never fooled," Robb lied, for it was Jon who noted, after hearing his letters, that each word was too particular, arranged like a pattern instead of a conversation. Robb had his suspicions, but it was his lover who put the pieces together. "I knew you were planning on shooting your brother that hunt. I saw no reason to let my guard down.” That was true. Robb knew from the start the boy had no love for his brother. “But the next day, you were every bit the southern knight. You glared daggers at your brother’s spine before taking his coat and wishing him good health. I was curious, so when you requested my penmanship, I did not refuse. I thought you would be a good ally. And even if I didn’t have all those things, I had Theon.”

“Theon?” Ramsay peered at him. “He told you?”

“No, but his body did,” Robb answered cryptically. “His eyes chased after you, his body called out for your touch. He is my brother in every way but blood. I know him. And I know he does not covet a good man. He likes what is vicious and cruel. It is the ocean in him." Robb loved his foster brother, but he knew the trenches that laid in that boys' heart. Theon craved danger. He craved crashing waves and violent storms. "He likes ambition. And this well-mannered dog you’ve shown us, he is none of those things.”

Ramsay scoffed. He found his load lightened and certain weights removed when the revelation was made. Robb was relatively unaffected by his change, and so the mask was gone—for now. “I was not lying about my family.”

“I did not think you were,” Robb answered. “But what do you want for your loyalty?”

“My rightful place on the seat of Dreadfort. A pretty, big-titted bride with an armada.” Ramsay grinned. “And of course, your everlasting friendship and the benefits that come with it.”

There were many perks to being a favorite house of a lord. Fewer taxes and more money to spend. More freedom to express local laws. The possibilities were endless. He could be second in command of the North.

Robb sat down on his bed. He dearly wished he kept wine in his room, but for now, the sweat of their efforts was all the nourishment needed. “The Dreadfort is yours as soon as the rebellion is found and quashed. I give you my word.” He looked into Ramsay’s eyes. “But I need something else from you.” The literal loss of his honor dripped from his pores as he declared, “And it requires a certain expertise of a Bolton.”

Ramsay could not remember the last time he’d been so eager. He loved it when the good ones turned dark. “What is it?” 

“Find me the spy you speak of. If they are close to me, I do not want to alert their attention. You, however, are not here.” Robb’s mood took a dire turn. “But, that is another matter." Robb sighed. "More than anything, however, I need you to find out what happened yesterday. The truth behind the fall.”

“Are your men not up to the task?”

“I fear they are letting their own prejudices cloud their judgments. And I believe the whole situation was too messy to lack evidence.” Robb closed his eyes before opening them with strengthened resolve. “The Bolton ways are…effective. I need to know if my mother is as innocent as she claims.” Robb opened his mouth to say something else, before closing it.

Ramsay was curious but did not push. He focused on completing the favor. There was no hardship in fulfilling such a mundane request.

Besides, he was hungry for another flaying. “I am happy to serve.” The bastard took the clothes provided him and Robb led him in the direction of the servant’s bath quarters, where he would not be seen. Most were already on duty regardless. Before Ramsay was left alone, he asked Robb what he expected to do with the bodies. "And there will be bodies."

Robb, in a startling amount of coldness—one completely unexpected of the green boy Ramsay thought he could read, told him: “You’ll find a way.”

***

Jon was glad he chose his father’s room that night.

 Unable to seek his brother’s comfort, the young omega found himself craving his alpha’s paternal odor. He snuck into his father’s master bedroom, only to find the Stark patriarch awake, clutching onto a bag of unseen contents. Jon, who took great triumph over his sneaky steps, made sure to cause great noise upon his entrance. Ned was surprised and both watched half the bag released into the air like colored moondust.

Jon recognized the smell of it. He gathered the plants when they grew, made sure they were labeled and kept out of the children’s path. At once, he ran towards his father and hugged.

“Jon,” Ned addressed.

Jon winced. His father’s voice, normally so comforting in its sternness, so strong in its roughness, was tortured and raspy.

“Father,” Jon whimpered. “What are you doing?”

“I just…” Ned could not find the words. He dropped the bag on his night table. “I wanted to see him again. I thought if he was dreaming…”

“You could talk to him?” Jon finished weakly. He hugged his father tighter. “That stuff is poison. Omegas are stronger in their heats; that’s why mother allows you to use it during his heats. His strength protects you from further harm. But if you use it now…” Jon shook his head. The thought of it horrified him. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Ned held onto his son. “I know,” he answered. Tears were building in his eyes and he was desperate to let them fall. He refused—not when his son was sniffling against his chest.

Ned prayed with his son until the two of them fell asleep. His nightmares would race past his regrets, from the moment he passed a cloak over Catelyn Tully’s shoulders to the day he sent a raven for Jon’s decree. The legitimacy won’t even matter now, a voice whispered, sharp as his wife but distinctively his own. Now that there was no one to contest it, the secrecy was for naught.

The irony was not lost upon him; Ned held onto it as payment for Death. The reaper took his credit and laughed, for Ned knew he would not be rewarded with his scythe if Howland died. Lord Stark would live; a ghost of the man longing for his Witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robb has no chill. Sex is not an option for awhile so he's going to be in war mood. 
> 
> Next chapter will be in August and the ending is already planned so it's just about getting to it. 
> 
> And as you have noticed, I changed my name to sometimesimeow, because sometimes, I do meow. This is also my Disqus name and my administrative name on both my sites. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I fear this story will take 2 weeks to update given how long each chapter is, and that I haven't got a head start on the other chapters yet. Nonetheless, I aim to update this one consistently.  
> 2\. This story, especially in the next chapter, will have some disturbing themes and actions. The first 1-3 chapters (no more than five) will focus on Jon's adaption to Winterfell when he is eleven and Robb is twelve. There will be no actual penetration but we get to see child!Robb becoming possessive and dark!Robb very soon.  
> 3\. Betas don't exist in this story.  
> 4\. if you have any tag suggestions, please give them to me because I have no clue what to put on.  
> 5\. I aim to add a lot of sex and a lot of plot in this story.


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